


Dark Clouds, Chromatic Storm

by Nybbas



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Multi-perspective, Original Flavor, Teamwork makes the dream work, Trauma, golden ending?, ruminations about fantasy politics, the horrors of war, three houses working together and fighting a lot and falling in love, too much lore about Agarthans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 105,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24669064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nybbas/pseuds/Nybbas
Summary: Jeralt Eisner, former knight of Seiros, turns up at Garreg Mach half-mad and nearly dead. He rambles about his child being stolen by dark mages before collapsing. Soon after, the students of the Officers Academy are plagued by disturbing stories of the so-called Ashen Demon, an emotionless warrior bent on their destruction. The flames of war rise as Those Who Slither in the Dark are able to step out of the shadows and declare the Agarthan subjugation of Fódlan. Division means death and all houses must join together to face the threat.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Annette Fantine Dominic, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Marianne von Edmund, Dorothea Arnault/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Bernadetta von Varley, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Flayn/Dedue Molinaro, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Claude von Riegan, Linhardt von Hevring/Lysithea von Ordelia, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Mercedes von Martritz, Petra Macneary/Ignatz Victor, Shamir Nevrand/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 88
Kudos: 113





	1. A Chance Encounter

_ I was dreaming about the girl again. _

The words rang in his head as he staggered against a tree and took a few moments to catch his breath. His ragged breathing was the only sound in the twilight. He was still half an hour from the edge of the village, but he had to make it back before nightfall. There were only a few hours left. He fumbled for his flask and took a long drink. Nearly empty already. 

_ I was dreaming about the girl again.  _

Jeralt squeezed his eyes shut and kept walking. Those words had been the last thing his son had ever said to him. Strange words from an even stranger child. Always so quiet, Jeralt had blamed himself that Byleth never smiled, never laughed, never took more than a passive interest in anything but swordsmanship. That morning had been no stranger than any other until Jeralt had been knocked on his back by a burst of dark energy and watched the masked figures dragging his child away before he could so much as grab the lance from the wall. 

Six months of searching, and he had nothing. No sign of the kid. No sign of the ones who’d taken him. He’d walked half-way across Fódlan and back searching, and he was down to the pathetic hope that maybe, just maybe, the kid might turn up home for his birthday. 

The dark around him deepened as he drew nearer to the old fort beside the village where he and Byleth had lived and worked in companionable quiet for so many years. Jeralt held the image in his mind of walking through the door, seeing Byleth waiting for him, maybe a little battered, but that stoic blue gaze enough to tell him that it was okay now. Byleth had never craved much affection, but Jeralt allowed himself the fantasy of folding his child in his arms. He thought the kid was lost before once, lost along with Sitri, lost along with everything he’d cared for and worked for. Not this time, Jeralt thought, not yet. 

“This way.... There’s an old fort!” 

The voice was hushed, but it snapped Jeralt out of his thoughts with such force that he instinctively ducked behind a tree. He was drunk, he realized with disgust as his head reeled from the motion. How was he always drunk these days? 

Peering out from behind the tree, he spotted a few shapes moving quickly through the grey dusk, down to the black looming shadow of his old house. Three people, armed, moving stealthily, Jeralt thought as he began to draw up his plan of attack before realizing he had no idea if these people were in any way connected to the mages who had taken Byleth. Follow them, then, he decided, watch and try to learn something. 

“It looks abandoned,” a soft female voice said from up ahead of him as Jeralt moved quickly and efficiently down the wooded slope to pause behind the ruins of his old stable. “We could use it for cover, possibly, but-” 

“We should keep running,” a young man’s voice replied, a slight lilt of amusement despite his apparent circumstance. “Bandits will just torch the place with us inside. Best bet is to lose them in the woods and try to make it back before dawn.” 

“Let’s try the door before we start debating any further,” another young man cut in, sounding far more somber than the other two, “it’s possible someone is sleeping inside, right?” 

“With that chunk taken out of the wall?” the other boy scoffed. “It’d be drafty.” 

Jeralt squeezed his lance at that. His mind took him back for a moment to the wall blowing in behind him, to the feeling of wood puncturing his back, to the ringing in his ears as he tried to focus on Byleth, surrounded. Figures with masks like crows dancing behind his eyes, Jeralt wrenched himself back to the present moment. The three voices, he observed, sounded like kids. He gritted his teeth, and drained the last of the flask. 

“While I’m not usually inclined to bet on gambles without insurance, I think I am in agreement with Claude,” the girl spoke again. “Without help, we cannot take on so many alone.” 

“How many?” 

His voice sounded rough, even more than normal, as Jeralt stepped out from behind the house. He knew he must look bad by their faces, worse than he remembered. After half a year living in the woods, his hair and beard were long and the dirt had sunk into the lines of his face. He looked like a vagabond drunk or a madman, he thought, which probably wasn’t half wrong either way. 

The three kids were standing at his door and he immediately registered that their clothing marked them as students. His mouth tugged involuntarily into a bitter smile. Of course, he thought, he had never truly been able to escape from Garreg Mach. From Rhea. 

The girl was an odd looking one, silver-white hair and an expression of flinty resolve he’d never seen on someone so young. One of the boys he pegged as Claude by his faint smirk that only faltered for a second at the sight of Jeralt. The last one was tall, poised to the point of stiffness, but with a slightly incongruous tousled mop of blonde hair. 

“Um, we apologize for disturbing you,” the blonde boy spoke first and Jeralt watched how his muscled tense in response as Jeralt took a step closer. 

“I asked how many,” Jeralt repeated, “how many are chasing you? And what are they wearing?”

“Eight, at least,” the girl replied, “bandits by their clothing. The leader wielded an axe, he had long hair, a beard-” 

“No masks?” Jeralt asked. “No mages?” 

“Swordsman, I thought, no ma-” the taller boy began before the other one, Claude, elbowed him sharply in the ribs to silence him. 

“What Dimitri is trying to say is that we didn’t get a good look,” Claude said with a shrug, gesturing to the other boy. 

“You should run then,” Jeralt said, making for the door to his house. The three students parted nervously to allow him. “Try to lose them in the woods. Keep quiet and see if they give up.

“Wait!” Claude cut in as Jeralt shoved open the warped wooden door. “You are the mercenary right? We can pay, I swear, we’re from the Officers Academy. Whatever you want as payment-” 

“You don’t have what I want,” Jeralt said with a rye smile and slammed the door behind him as he stepped over the threshold. 

The dark house greeted him. It stank of animals, he thought, and the caved in ruins of the kitchen were filled with sprouting grass now. Beneath the thick dust and grime, Jeralt spotted the smear of his own blood across the boards where he’d tried to drag himself after Byleth. But no kid. No fresh footsteps. No one waiting.

“Happy birthday, kid,” Jeralt whispered to himself, shame burning in his throat for the slur in his voice. He let his head fall to his chest, standing in the silent ruins of his old house. Another failure. The famous Blade Breaker, Captain of the Knights of Seiros, Jeralt Eisner the mercenary, and he couldn’t even protect his own child. 

Then, very slowly, Jeralt became aware that there was faint shouting from outside. The clash of steel, he realized. He turned to the door and pushed it ajar again. 

They’d barely made it back to the edge of the woods, Jeralt saw, before the bandits had spotted them from the road. He staggered forward from the door, close enough to make out the battle in the dark. 

The kids were putting up a good fight, but they were too badly outnumbered for it to matter much. He watched Claude, his easygoing face now set, fire arrows into the fray despite his bloodslicked, trembling fingers. Dimitri fought like a demon, Jeralt thought, as he saw a lance pierce through a man’s back with strength beyond what even a trained knight could usually manage, but he was already hobbled by a wound to the leg. The girl was fierce, grimly spinning her axe as two swordsmen backed her against a tree.

Jeralt hesitated. He ought to leave. Getting himself injured or killed here did nothing to help Byleth. He had his own child to worry about, not three noble brats from an academy he’d long since sworn to avoid.

And yet. 

As the white-haired girl managed to fell her last assailant and turned to aid the other two, a massive hulking shape came lunging towards her from behind. Jeralt saw the glint of moonlight on the blade of an axe, sharp enough to cleave the girl asunder before she even had time to turn and spot it. 

His spear flew from his hand automatically, without any time to even consider what he was doing. It soared over the girl’s head, and she whirled around in time to see it slash through the arm of the bandit leader now bearing down on her. Too drunk, Jeralt cursed himself as he watched the spear sink into the side of the tree. But at the very least, it had provided a distraction. 

Unarmed, he bolted forwards anyways, ramming into the side of one of the swordsmen before shoving the girl out of harm’s way. For a moment, her eyes met his and he saw an oddly cold anger burning there. 

But by then, the bandit’s axe had sunk into his shoulder, and he could think of nothing but the searing pain of it as he fell limply to the ground. Useless old man, he admonished himself. You let the kid down, now you’re dying for these three. 

Sound muffled to a dull roar and Jeralt’s vision swam. Someone was yelling something. Yelling for him. Byleth? No, a white shape. A familiar and yet unfamiliar face hovered over his. Alois, that had been his name. The boy who had followed him around a lifetime ago. Too many children he’d somehow collected. But not the one who mattered. 

His vision slipped into darkness. No young girls asleep on their thrones. No dreams here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this originated as a bit of a thought experiment about what a FE3H route with no professor and all three house leaders forced to work together could look like. The rules I set for myself were: each chapter will have a different perspective character, all ships will be from different houses, and a roughly equivalent amount of character deaths to a normal route should happen (ya can't save em all folks).
> 
> Comment now and receive a limited edition Blade Breaker(tm) bottomless flask to drown your sorrows.


	2. One House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flayn meets an injured stranger.

Dawn and dusk were her favorite times. The students had retreated to their rooms, to their studies in the library, or to bed, and so she was not forced to smile awkwardly as they made jokes she didn’t understand. There was no jolt of fear as she stumbled over the word ‘brother’ and there were no moments of wild excitement as she thought she recognized some old acquaintance before her rational mind reminded her that they had been dead hundreds of years. She was free to wander by herself for a few cherished moments, unescorted and unmonitored by the not-so-subtle hired eyes of the church. And, of course, that’s when the fish were usually biting. 

A young woman sat with her feet dangling in the water as the sun rose over Garreg Mach monastery. Flayn, she thought to herself, or Cethleann. A girl, or not, no, a creature. A Nabatean? A childhood filled with memories of splashing through glittering oceans. Or flying? Soaring over endless rippling waves. Keeping such things straight was difficult. She was trying so very hard, but it was difficult. 

For the most part, she actually liked the students at the Officers Academy. It was nice to hear voices, see faces, not just the endless ruins of Zanado, at once familiar and alien. She liked singing with them in the choir, particularly the opera star with her beautiful voice. She’d tried her best to help with cooking duty a few times alongside a young red haired girl who’d shown up so painfully homesick, she could barely see to chop ingredients through a film of tears. And even if dinner had been burnt, it was nice to sit in the dining hall when it was full of chatter. But then, during the long hours of the day while the students trained and took their lessons, she was left alone again, wandering directionless around the empty grounds and occasionally stopping to pet the cats. 

But, at dawn, the girl named Flayn sat on the dock and cast her line into the pond. The morning was quiet and cool and she smiled as she watched her bait float in the clear water for a moment. Then, a shadow. A tug. 

“Open the gate!” 

The shout split the peace of the morning like flinging a boulder into still waters. Flayn nearly dropped the fishing rod in surprise, only just managing to fumble it back onto the side of the dock as she stood to see what was happening. 

A convoy of knights were returning through the market square and Flayn spotted Alois at the front, helping the drowsy-looking gatekeeper to push open the doors to the entrance hallway. 

Flayn took a few hesitant steps forward, unsure if she should run or go to help. Amidst the knights, she made out the black uniforms of three students--the house leaders, she realized, who’d been away on their training mission. Duke Reigan’s heir, Claude, was holding his arm stiffly as he walked and Flayn saw blood drying on his hand. Prince Dimitri leaned against his lance to support his weigh as he limped. The Imperial Princess, Edelgard, appeared sound enough, but for a few scrapes. 

“Pardon me, is there anything I can do?” Flayn said, stepping forward hesitantly. “I can wake Professor Manuela if-” 

Alois turned to see her as she spoke and his face paled. That’s when she spotted the other man. 

He was being carried in a makeshift stretcher, a pair of javelins with a cloak tied between them. He was gaunt, his face a mess of hair and blood and filth caked thickly into his skin. His chest had been slashed from the shoulder down to the middle of the ribcage and Flayn could hear by his groaning breaths that he’d probably punctured a lung. It was terrible. 

“The infirmary, yes!” Alois said, the concern on his face enough to tell her that she must appear rattled. “Fetch Professor Manuela at once.” 

“He’s, he’s dying-” Flayn said, hearing her voice shake as she stepped closer to the man. 

“Flayn, right? Seteth’s sister?” Claude von Riegan approached, his face carefully friendly. “We can go fetch her together, okay? I know it looks scary, but he’ll be alright once Professor Manuela can tend to him.” 

Flayn shook her head. The man would die, she could smell it on him. She was a girl, a young girl. And also she was not. She was a creature with wings. 

She darted forward to the side of the dying man and heard Alois make a sound between shock and resigned fear of what Seteth might do to him for allowing this. The dying man’s eyes were closed, his breathing ragged and irregular as blood bubbled at his lips. Flayn took a deep breath and placed her hands onto his chest. Glowing runes spun from her fingers and then she felt the familiar sing of her blood as it remembered what she had once been. She squeezed her eyes shut as the entrance hall went silent around her. 

Slowly, she opened her eyes. The wound was there, but the flesh had knit back where the blade had pierced through the ribs. She moved her hand over and felt the rise and fall of the man’s breathing ease slightly. 

And then fingers seized her wrist with disconcerting strength. The man’s eyes were open, wild and rolling in his head. He was terrified, she realized. Hurt and frightened and desperate. 

“The kid… took him, masked men, took my kid,” he wheezed, blood spraying from his lips and onto her face. “Rhea knows… She will…” 

And then his eyes rolled back and the fingers relaxed as Flayn staggered back. 

“The infirmary, now!” Alois said shakily, and the knights moved, bearing the man away and up the stairs. “By the goddess, Seteth is going to have my head for this.”

“Perhaps my brother need not be informed of the injured villager,” Flayn called desperately as Alois followed the stretcher. 

“I’m afraid that man is not just a villager,” Prince Dimitri said, his tone almost apologetic. The students had learned so quickly that so much as speaking to Flayn could earn them Seteth’s wrath, and apparently that extended to even the exalted Prince of Faerghus. “That was Jeralt Eisner, the former captain of the Knights of Sieros.” 

“We ought to follow,” the Imperial Princess said, her voice as firm and expressionless as ever, “both of you have sustained wounds that ought to be tended and we must report our erstwhile professor’s negligence to the church.” 

“What did he mean that his child was taken?” Flayn asked. “I am afraid I know little about Captain Eisner.” 

“From what we saw of him, I’m not sure he’s quite right in the head,” Claude von Riegan said, his easy smile back again. “That was some impressive help you gave us there, but after a scare like that, you ought to get cleaned up and find your brother. He’s probably-”

“He will worry, yes,” Flayn said, bowing shortly as the three house leaders glanced towards the stairs, “I will not detain you further from having your own injuries tended.” 

As predicted, Seteth was furious when she returned to her chamber with dried blood on her face and hands. There was a lecture, of course, and a long well-reasoned list of why she must keep her abilities secret, why she must hold back, why she must not appear remarkable. 

“There are people out there, Flayn, people who might seek to use your abilities-”

“I understand.” 

“If the students talk among themselves, it will arouse suspicion-” 

“Yes, I am aware.”

“You need to take this seriously! There have been disappearances, a number of unusual deaths in the area, perhaps this is too great of a risk-”

“I will be more careful, I promise.” 

“That man is mad, Flayn, I forbid you from going to see him. Professor Manuela is more than capable of tending to him now, and the less he knows of you, the better.” 

“Yes, brother.”

The way her voice snapped on the false word forced Seteth’s eyes to grow softer. 

“Alright then. I will report to the Archbishop. The Empire is sending a noted swordsman to replace the professor who fled and he will have to advise the Black Eagles for now. Perhaps by the time the students are ready for the mock battle, it will be safe for the two of us to observe.” 

The strict glare of her father was shot through with guilt and she smiled to mollify him. 

“I would enjoy that very much,” she replied before he swept out of the room. 

But as Flayn rinsed her hands clean in the basin, she realized that what she had seen in Jeralt did not leave her frightened. She had, for the first time in the years since she had reawoken, not been anxious, out of place, uncertain. She had felt useful. 

By the next day, the monastery was abuzz with gossip about the sudden appearance of Captain Jeralt. Flayn spotted Claude von Riegan sitting on the grass of the Officers Academy quad, gesticulating with one hand as he recounted the tale of his encounter while the other arm was snuggly bandaged in a sling. An athletically built girl with closely cropped hair sat beside him, her face drawn with anxiety as she pressed him for details. Claude’s eyes caught Flayn’s as she passed and he gave her a slightly conspiratorial wink. Uncertain what to do, Flayn made an aborted half-bow in response, and then hurried off to avoid further questions. What had she been thinking yesterday? Everyone knew Claude had a reputation for finding things out he shouldn’t and it was only a few months into the school year. 

Princess Edelgard, apparently reluctant to take a day of rest, nodded knowingly to Flayn as she passed by the training grounds, and her odd companion, who seemed to exist somewhere between retainer and friend, gave Flayn such a piercing and frankly disturbing glare that she found herself walking faster. What had Edelgard told the notorious Hubert von Vestra about her? And possibly even more frightening than Hubert, what had she mentioned to that green-haired boy in her house, the one who was either unabashedly snoring into his library books or watching Flayn with frankly insulting attention? How much, she wondered, had she actually given away to the house leaders? That she was practicing white magic? Surely that was not too risky? 

Then as she turned the corner towards the dining hall, she spotted Prince Dimitri and his companion Lady Ingrid Galatea apparently on their way from a late breakfast. This was simply too much, Flayn thought with exasperation as she hastily reversed her course. The Prince seemed nice enough in that blandly polite way of Kingdom nobles, but she did not need another awkward confrontation. 

The greenhouse, she decided. She could wait until all the students got tired of the whole drama in the greenhouse, shut up and protected with all the other exotic flowers. 

As soon as she entered the warm, fragrant building, however, her hopes were dashed. 

“Hey Flayn! Nice to see you again!” 

The girl from cooking duty, Annette, was crouched beside the flower bed doing something frankly unsafe looking with pruning shears. Beside her, an extremely tall young man was packing soil around a few clippings while subtly attempting to shift the fronds of a fern out of harm's way as Annete swung around with the shears towards Flayn. Dedue, Flayn thought, recalling his name vaguely, although they had never spoken. 

“Ah, good morning Annette, I apologize for disturbing your efforts here, perhaps I shall find someplace elsewhere to sit-” Flayn stammered. 

“No! Please stay! Gardening duty is a terrible drag without anyone to talk to! Oh, I mean, sorry Dedue, I just- well, you know,” Annette said brightly, flushing a little as Dedue merely nodded in response and managed to deftly remove the shears from her hand in the moment of distraction. 

“I understand,” he said gravely, “if you do not wish to be seen conversing with a man of Duscur, I will complete the planting myself and allow you to speak with your companion.” 

“Oh goodness, I have no wish to leave you with all of this work alone!” Flayn interjected quickly. “I shall assist you both. Do these need to be watered?”

“Yes! Or, er, maybe no. Did we do these ones already?” Annette said, spinning around a few times. “Sorry about this, I know you mentioned something about these ones being made into a tonic for burns and then my brain just went off on its own way thinking about flame conjuration.” 

“These have been watered,” Dedue said quickly and then turned away to busy himself with reorganizing a shelf of tools that had somehow gotten scattered across the floor. Flayn watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was quite imposing looking, but Flayn got the sense he was blundering his way through avoiding questions almost as badly as she usually did. 

“So, um, have you been feeling more at home here yet?” Flayn asked as Annette brushed dirt from her hands and skirt. “I know it took me quite some time to feel comfortable around so many others youths, er, peers of my own age.” 

“Well, at first I really just knew Mercie. And Lorenz, I guess, but that hardly counts. But now I know the other Blue Lions better, and of course I know you now, too!” Annete replied with a smile. “Are you planning to come watch us in the mock battle?” 

“I did intend to,” Flayn said, feeling herself relax as the conversation turned away from dangerous topics. 

“I’ve heard the knights might make the students stay at the monastery instead of watching this year. Mercie said it was because people are afraid of the Ashen Demon, but since they probably caught him last night, I don’t see why everyone can’t go now,” Annette said conspiratorially. Flayn felt her stomach drop. 

“I am afraid I am not familiar with the Ashen Demon,” Flayn replied as Annette looked expectantly at her. 

“It’s a ghost story, or maybe more like a folktale. Apparently there has been some unrest with bandits or some such around the monastery and the villagers are saying it’s a demon, bleached white as bone with eyes like burning coals,” Annette’s voice lowered to a thrilling whisper as she told the story, “which is just silly, right, but apparently the knights think that madman they brought into the infirmary yesterday could have been behind it.” 

“Preposterous!” Flayn burst out before she could think better of it. “I mean, I have heard that the injured man was none other than Captain Jeralt, a former Knight of Seiros. Not some murderous demon.” 

“But Mercie told me she overheard your big brother telling a few of the guards to keep constant watch on the infirmary. Just because he was a Knight of Seiros doesn’t mean he has to be good, right? Apparently, this Jeralt guy had been missing for months, just about as long as people have been telling this Ashen Demon story,” Annette replied. “So we have nothing to worry about, right?”

An uneasy upturn in her voice seemed to denote that she really did want Flayn to tell her that it would be alright. 

“Captain Jeralt is responsible for saving the life of his highness,” Dedue’s deep voice unexpectedly cut in. Flayn and Annette both turned to look at him. He was holding a watering can that seemed almost comically small for him and his face flushed as he realized he had accidentally attracted their attention. “I… I only mean to say that his disturbing appearance might not match his intentions.” 

Annette’s brows creased and she nodded a little guiltily. 

“You might be right, Dedue,” Annette admitted, “I also heard that apparently one of the students here used to get trained by him. Leonie Pinelli, from Golden Deer, I think. Or at least, I heard Professor Hanneman lecturing her about trying to sneak into the infirmary last night.” 

“Our work here is finished,” Dedue said, glancing around the greenhouse. “I will take my leave. It would be unsuitable for you to be seen with someone from Duscur outside of work.” 

“I do not see why-” Flayn began, but he was already gone. Annette dusted herself off again and then groaned as it only moved the dirt from her hands onto her skirt. 

“Don’t worry about him, Flayn, he’s like that to everyone. Everyone but Dimitri, I guess,” she reassured her, “oh now, look what I’ve done to myself, I’ll have to change again!” 

As Annette hurried away to wash up, Flayn was left alone at last in the greenhouse. Despite the chaos, Dedue had done an incredible job transferring the clippings to soil. Perhaps she ought to ask him for help more often. He had the calm and yet defensible nature of someone who might consider allowing her near a stove. 

She had been given plenty to think about in the meantime. Had she saved the life of a knight, a mentor, a father? Or a demon from a campfire tale? 

By the end of the week, Claude was back to the archery range and Dimitri had worked the remaining stiffness out of his healing leg and so the knights and students were all permitted to tramp down the steep hillside of the monastery to a local field where the mock battle would take place. 

Flayn watched beside Seteth, peering eagerly on the tips of her toes to see the field. 

The Golden Deer regrettably went down first. Lorenz rushed out without listening and Ignatz seemed to panic at the sight of Hubert bearing down on him and dropped half his quiver out onto the ground. The Blue Lions put up a good fight. While Ashe was quickly forced to surrender his position, Dedue managed to knock the Brigid princess Petra to the ground and Dimitri gave Ferdinand von Aegir such a ringing blow to the temple that he dropped like a stone. In the end however, Edelgard and Hubert overwhelmed them. Professor Hanneman gave the surrender signal and the house leaders shook hands with one another. 

“Thank you for allowing me to watch, brother,” Flayn said as the battle was wrapping up. “It truly brought me joy to see more of the students here.” 

Seteth smiled tightly, his eyes still darting about the edges of the field as if he were scanning for an ambush. 

“We ought not to delay too long in returning,” he replied, “it will be evening soon, just as soon as I can give my thanks to the new professor-” 

As he said it, Flayn turned to see someone approaching them. He was enormously tall and for a moment Flayn thought she was looking at a bare skull, but then her eyes registered that he was simply wearing a white mask. His eyes, however, bored into hers with such intensity that she nearly flinched. His hair was pale ashy blonde, nearly as white as his face. White face, she thought, eyes like burning coals. And a mask. Hadn’t Jeralt mentioned a masked man?

“Brother!” she began, seizing Seteth’s sleeve and stepping back. “Brother, there-”

“Ah, Professor Jeritza, there you are,” Seteth said as he noticed the stranger, “I believe congratulations are in order.” 

The new Black Eagles professor. This was him? As he stepped forward to grasp Seteth’s extended hand, his burning eyes glanced over to Flayn once again. She felt like a rabbit sighted by a hawk. 

But she was just a girl, she told herself. Just an unremarkable girl, and he was simply a curious new professor. Nothing more than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all like foreshadowing and exposition! and some classic Flayn cooking jokes, of course. Leave me a comment and I will brew up some chamomile so we can discuss gardening mishaps and the ideal professor! Next up, Ignatz will learn the seductive power of comparative folklore.


	3. Unfamiliar Scenery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignatz learns a valuable lesson in perspective.

Ignatz let out a breath, wiped the lenses against his shirt, and then tried again to aim at the target. What had Professor Manuela been thinking, setting him to learn archery? Perhaps with all her work in the infirmary last month, teaching had not been at the forefront of her mind. He was already nearsighted, half-blind without his glasses, and she wanted him to learn to shoot arrows? Then again, he was the fool who liked to paint without being able to see. And, he was fairly certain that the professor’s assignment had more to do with the way he flinched at close combat than some natural aptitude with the bow. 

A few targets down the range, Leonie sent arrow after arrow whistling into the bale of hay. When they’d first met at the beginning of the school year, she’d been intense, but after the strange incident involving her former mentor, she’d become downright grim. None of the faculty would say anything about Captain Jeralt still except that the church was keeping him until he had recovered from his wounds, but it did nothing to stop the rumors that he was some sort of madman now. Lysithea was downright jumpy about the whole thing, although she’d never admit it. Hilda was probably to blame for that after she’d whispered to them a local rumor about a man with a pale grey face and fiery red eyes called the Ashen Demon. 

Ignatz pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, squinted at the target, but just as he drew back his string, the door to the training range burst open with a clatter and he released the arrow with a yelp. 

“Wow, Ignatz, nice form on the draw, but maybe try that one with your eyes open next time,” Claude’s amused drawl came from behind him. Ignatz flushed and looked hopelessly up at the arrow now lodged in the ceiling. “I’ve got news! Gather around, fearless comrades!” 

“Is there any word about Captain Jeralt’s condition?” Leonie said immediately, stowing her own arrow back in the quiver. 

Claude shook his head. While the house leader was always unfailingly friendly, he nevertheless made Ignatz a bit nervous to be around. He was always saying odd things, brash and strange ideas that left Ignatz unsettled where he wanted to be certain. 

“Leonie, if they ever decide to tell us about that, I am certain you will be the first to know,” Claude said fondly, “nope, this is about our next assignment. We’re going to track down some real bandits, those same ones who tried to chase me down in the woods!” 

“What? Why? Can’t the knights handle that?” Ignatz said, feeling his mouth immediately go dry. It wasn’t that he was afraid, exactly. He knew he had to become a knight, had to eventually master this even if he didn’t feel ready. Knights defended people, which felt good and noble, but defending someone and killing someone, even a bandit, seemed like entirely different things. 

“Sure they can, but apparently the archbishop thinks this will be a good opportunity for some real combat experience. You know, the thing we’re all supposedly here to learn? Anyways, her royal irritableness turned it down, so I volunteered us,” Claude said. “The knights are tracking the bandits down now; apparently, they’ve been spotted around Zanado in the Oghma Mountains.” 

“Wait, so Edelgard turned down the chance? I wonder why? She usually seems so eager to train,” Ignatz wondered aloud. Claude raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Exactly what I thought, Ignatz. Why would the Imperial Princess turn down another chance to prove her strength? Must be something I don’t know, and I don’t like not knowing things, so I said we’d do it instead,” Claude said, looking thoughtfully at Ignatz in a way that made him both flattered and frightened. “I have no idea why a bunch of thieves would be hanging around Zanado, though. Not the best place for a hideout if you don’t want the church to find you.” 

“Why? It’s in the mountains?” Leonie said shortly, already turning back to target practice. “Hardly anyone lives up there.”

“I bet Ignatz can answer that one,” Claude said, “I’ve never seen him miss a daily prayer to go foraging in the woods.” 

As both Leonie and Claude turned to look at him, Ignatz wished to sink into the wall. 

“Um, well, I don’t know about bandits, and I’ve never really lived outside of a town, but, well, at least in the scripture it says that Zanado is where the Goddess alighted in the world,” Ignatz stammered, “there’s actually a beautiful image of it on the ceiling of the saint’s chapel.” 

“You’ve read a lot about the goddess, haven’t you? And even if you haven’t left home much yourself, you’ve read about half the known world,” Claude said. “I was actually going to go do a bit of armchair travelling myself. Care to join me in the library?” 

Ignatz glanced down at the bow in his hands. 

“I- I guess I could,” he said, “but the books are really more of a hobby than anything, I’m no expert. It’s all just for fun. And wouldn’t you rather I keep training so I don’t embarrass us again?” 

Claude clapped him on the shoulder in response. 

“Ignatz, I’ve seen you make shots I could never imagine. You’ve got a great eye and a fine arm, it’s just your nerves that need practice,” Claude announced, “come on, help me with some research. Just for fun.” 

“Alright then,” Ignatz agreed, stowing the training bow and following Claude up the hill from the range and towards the towers of the monastery. 

It was the afternoon free hours and most of the students were either holed up completing assignments or training for combat. Claude gave a friendly salute to Hilda, who was shirking her duty as per usual in the tea pavilion. She was accompanied by Dorothea, looking glamorous as always, and Mercedes, who Ignatz had mostly encountered in the cathedral. Hilda waved back and patted a chair next to her but Claude held up his hands in protest and kept walking. 

The library was quiet and pleasant as they entered, unoccupied but for the usual lump of Linhardt apparently taking a break from his studies by snoring gently beneath a table. 

“Alright, let’s see what you can find on Zanado,” Claude said, surveying the collection of books, “I’m curious about who used to live there. Apparently the place is full of ruins.” 

“Right,” Ignatz said, hurrying to scan the shelves for a few books he’d idly examined a few weeks back. “Um, and what are you planning to look at?” 

Claude had immediately vaulted over a barrier and up to the second story of the library where the special collections reserved for the monks of Seiros were kept. 

“I’m not going to deface anything, I promise,” he said with the confidence of someone who had definitely snuck restricted reading material before. “I just like my Seiros scriptures nice and old.” 

Ignatz brought a few books back to a reading desk and nervously eyed Linhardt, still asleep beneath the table. If anyone outside of the Golden Deer caught Claude poking around up there, he’d definitely be punished as an accomplice. It might be fine for the heir apparent of the Leicester Alliance to get caught poking around, but Ignatz’ parents had been saving for years to get him a spot at the Officers Academy. 

Flipping through the texts he’d found before, there wasn’t much new about Zanado. It was sometimes called the Red Canyon, although in the painted ceiling, the buildings had been a butter-yellow sandstone. It was known as the place where the Goddess had first descended from the heavens and where Saint Seiros and the other children of the Goddess had once lived. None of the books mentioned why it had been abandoned, simply that when the Goddess had healed the earth and then retreated, Seiros had founded the home of the church at Garreg Mach instead. 

“I am sorry for having disturbed you of reading, but will you be using this book next?” a warm female voice interrupted Ignatz as he flipped through pages of a sacred history. Ignatz looked up quickly to see Petra, the Brigid princess, standing at the edge of the table, pointing to one of the Fódlan travelogues he’d picked up. “I am wanting to be reading of Fódlan’s locations since my house will be remaining here this month. There is a great feeling of being… in the coop?”

“Cooped up?” Ignatz suggested, “I mean, yes, of course, I’m not using that one. Feel free to read it.”

“I am… feeling the freedom then?” Petra said hesitantly. “Are your lenses helping you to read as well as survive?”

Ignatz hadn’t spoken to Petra much outside of an embarrassing collision in the hallway that had left him groping on the ground for his spectacles, which had seemed to greatly fascinate the Brigid princess. She was a striking looking person, almost like a painting herself with the vivid violet markings under her eyes and the intricate little braids woven through her long hair. 

“Ah yes, my glasses help me read as well. Basically they just make things bigger so I don’t have to hold the book like this,” Ignatz said, miming squinting over the book and feeling an unexplained smile breaking out on his face. 

“These lenses hold amazing power!” Petra exclaimed at that, “imagine how skillful a hunter who could see the prey closely would be! Why do the other students from Fódlan not use these lenses as well?”

“Well, unless you were born with eyes like mine, they do more harm than good,” Ignatz shrugged. As he glanced over, he saw that Petra had flipped open the book to a map of the Ohgma Mountains. A star in the middle of the range was surrounded by a box of narrow text from the traveller who had written the book. “Ah, Petra, you wouldn’t also happen to be reading about Zanado?” 

Petra glanced over at him and self-consciously drew her arm up around the book. 

“Yes, that was one of the places of Fódlan I am wishing to know of,” Petra said noncommittally. “You will be travelling there soon, yes?” 

“That is where those bandits who attacked the house leaders have been seen,” Ignatz confirmed. “It is a location important to the church, which is…” 

Petra slowly drew her arm away from the book and nodded. 

“Not making sense,” she finished his sentence. She glanced around the library furtively for a moment and Ignatz suddenly realized with a lurch of his stomach that Claude was still upstairs in the restricted section. At least he was keeping quiet. 

“In Brigid, there is much telling of old stories that are… different than the stories of Seiros in Fódlan. My grandfather was telling me sometimes of a place in Fódlan where a star fell from the sky. He is saying that there was a great city there of creatures who came out of the star, strange beasts, and many of the old people of Fódlan wished to have hunting of these beasts. And the old Fódlan kings came together for the hunt, but when they shot the beast, they found that the spirits of the creatures now hunted them forever. And the radiance of the spirits was hurting to their eyes and so they ran to a dark cave and were punished.” 

Petra finished the tale and Ignatz realized he’d been holding his breath. 

“That is…” he began, “a very different story. Maybe… maybe the people of Brigid saw the Goddess from very far away and made up a story to teach children careful hunting?” 

“Perhaps you are speaking truth,” Petra said with an uncertain smile, “the people of Brigid are far away and had no lenses then to help them with seeing closely.” 

Claude chose this moment to reappear suddenly, dropping down from the second floor with the silence of a cat and then sliding into a chair as though he’d been sitting there for hours. 

“Hey, Ignatz, Petra,” he greeted them and Ignatz spotted that he’d apparently copied down a folded page of notes. “Neither of you happens to know what a Nabatean is, maybe?” 

Petra started at the sound of Claude’s voice and then quickly shut her book. 

“I am sorry, the language of Fódlan is still difficult for me,” she said stiffly. 

“I’ve never heard of it, either,” Ignatz added. 

“How about Agartha? That’s a new one for me,” Claude asked, as cool as if he wasn’t poking around about the ancient secret mysteries of the church, “sometimes the words from outside of Fódlan can be just as helpful as the ones we speak here.” 

“I am not knowing these words yet,” Petra said, standing and searching to reshelve her book. “My regrets is for not helping more, but I am needed for work at the kitchens soon.” 

The library fell silent as she hurried away. Ignatz glanced over at Claude who raised his eyebrows. Then a mumbling voice got even Claude to flinch as it spoke suddenly from beneath the table. 

“It’s an old kingdom legend, I think. Agartha. It means the land of ghosts. Those who were killed and never obtained justice live in a cold city beneath the earth forever,” Linhardt said and then yawned. “Much more interesting people in the library today than usual.” 

For the rest of the week, Claude didn’t bring up their day at the library and apparently whatever he’d been reading about Nabateans and Agarthans, he did not intend to share. Ignatz spent hour after hour at the shooting range, practicing until he barely needed to look anymore to hit the target. Each time the arrow sunk into the bale of hay, he couldn’t help but imagine the sound of it sinking into flesh. 

When they actually set out for Zanado, they were accompanied by an escort of knights, just to ensure they wouldn’t be overwhelmed if anything went wrong, but strangely it didn’t make Ignatz feel any better about the whole thing. Marianne had, of course, asked not to go and was essentially dragged by Lysithea on the morning they set out for the mountains. Leonie was treating it almost as a competition since Lorenz kept announcing his fervent desire for the chance to kill a real bandit in a fight. Raphael seemed unworried, but when did Raphael ever seem worried? Ignatz was… worried. 

But when he saw the canyon for the first time, for just a moment, he felt something different. It was beautiful. Even the ruins, the crumbled remains carved in the sandstone cliffs and the steep drops into narrow crevices, were beautiful to him. For a moment, the battlefield transformed into a landscape. 

“Ignatz, you and Claude stick to cover when you can. Aim for the leader as soon as he’s in range and don’t let him get in close with that axe,” Professor Manuela instructed them. “I’ll be able to help you if you’re hurt, but if you rush too far ahead-” 

“I can do it,” Ignatz confirmed. 

His nerves settled, and he nocked an arrow as they advanced towards the bridge. He was ready for this. He had trained for this. He was in a world of art, not the real world of blood and pain and killing. 

When he pulled the string back and released, it took him a moment to notice that the target he’d been aiming for had even fallen. And that was it. He had done it. Someone was dead at his hand. 

“Nice shot!” Raphael’s voice boomed out from somewhere beside him. Ignatz stared down at the body as he passed. He thought he might be sick. 

“Aim for the leader,” Claude yelled, “Angle high and trust your eye.” 

Ignatz raised his head and saw a large man with an axe, backed up against the ruined pillars of an old temple. He looked like a cornered dog, bristling with anger. Ignatz raised the bow, angled it high, his eye calculating for him how hard he would need to draw. The bandit looked at him. 

And looked past him. And for the first time Ignatz saw fear in his eyes. 

Without thinking, Ignatz turned his head, glanced over his shoulder, and loosed the arrow. It clattered against the ground somewhere far away and Ignatz heard Claude groan. 

But before Hilda managed to bring the bandit to his knees, her distant voice lamenting “you’re making me work”, Ignatz spotted something over his shoulder. 

Someone was standing on the cliffs, watching them. A figure in a dark coat. From the distance, Ignatz could only see a smudge of white for its head and face. But the figure had been watching them. 

Before Ignatz could say anything, Professor Manuela was holding his face and checking him for injuries. 

“Your form was perfect, Ignatz,” she said before brushing past to tend to Lorenz who had managed to get his nose smashed in. Hilda was making sounds of disgust as she wiped blood from her hands and Claude was checking the still body of the bandit leader on the ground. It was over. 

“Just make sure you look when you’re actually releasing the shot.” 

Ignatz turned back to look over his shoulder, voice starting in his throat. But the canyon walls stretched around them, empty, solitary, a barren landscape painting once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah the cuteness of Petra playing with Ignatz's glasses! Thank you so much for your comments! Next up, Ashe has a Bad Time. Comment now and I will give you the ultimate gift: a HIGHLY coveted genuine owl feather!


	4. Fidelity in the Mist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashe joins Edelgard for a mission and learns more than he expected.

“You aren’t going.” 

Ashe met Dimitri’s gaze. Firm, sky blue, and hard. Dimitri, his house leader, paragon of everything he’d ever read a knight should be, unfailingly polite, and eternally diligent. And sometimes, like now, cold. 

“I already volunteered, your highness, and we are only serving as rear guard to the knights, I’m sorry but-” Ashe began again, but Dimitri just shook his head and returned to methodically cleaning the leather straps of his armor. It was only the two of them in the Knight’s Hall that evening, everyone else having retired to their rooms, or in Sylvain’s case, to sunset strolls through town with a girl on his arm. 

“I’m your house leader, Ashe, and I forbid it. This is the Black Eagle’s mission, we are to help the Knights of Seiros search for evidence of a missing person,” Dimitri said. 

“I understand,” Ashe said. This was his house leader, and also his prince. To go against him would be to abandon the entire reason he was here. But before he could stop himself, he felt a lump forming in his throat and the words exploded from his mouth. “He’s my father, please. I have to go, I have to see him, maybe stop him if I can.” 

Dimitri’s head snapped up at that. 

“Which is exactly why I don’t want you there. Because if something goes wrong or you hesitate, you might get hurt. And if the church cannot-” Dimitri paused and steadied his voice slightly. There was something slightly strange about him sometimes, like he held a prisoner inside himself that was battering at the bars to be let out. “Because no one should have to see their father die.” 

Ashe felt color rise in his cheeks at that. 

“You think they’re going to kill him,” he said softly. “That they’ll execute him on the spot like they did to Christophe.” 

Dimitri was silent, returning to polishing at the buckles of his armor without looking up. 

“And you don’t… you don’t care if they do,” Ashe continued, feeling his voice thickening and his eyes pricking with hot tears. “Because you think he deserves it, because of Duscur, what Christophe did.”

The leather in Dimitri’s hands snapped and the metal buckle fell with a clatter to the stone floor. He looked up and met Ashe’s eyes, and for the first time, Ashe felt frightened of him. Then the expression faded, the prisoner dragged back to his cage, and Dimitri merely shook his head. 

“I am only trying to spare you more pain, Ashe,” he said benignly, “leave this mission to someone else.” 

Ashe turned and walked out of the knight’s hall as quickly as he could without running. His arms wrapped instinctively around himself and he walked like the skulking thief of his childhood, not the noble son of Lord Lonato. 

What had he just done? Defied orders, insulted his prince, accused his house leader of bloodthirsty cruelty. His family was crumbling around him and now he had decided to destroy his future with it. 

Twilight faded quickly into night as he walked. It was cold in the evenings here, especially up on the high cliffs of Garreg Mach. Ashe picked his way silently up to the second floor of the dormitories, heart pounding with terror of what he was about to do. His senses were honed from years of creeping into places he was not supposed to be and he overheard Hilda in her room thanking Ferdinand profusely for bringing her tea on such a chilly night. 

He stood in front of the next door, swallowed down his anger and fear, and then knocked. It opened after only a moment. 

“Lady Edelgard,” he said, bowing his head to the Imperial Princess. “I will join you for the mission… and, do you think I might ask Professor Jeritza about switching houses?” 

Edelgard’s stoic face twitched into a rare smile. 

Leaving for the mission with the Black Eagles was surreal, but no stranger than it had felt to learn that his adoptive father was their target. At first, it felt odd not to hear Annette humming to herself as they walked, watching Felix growing simultaneously irritated and charmed by it. 

Instead, Ferdinand regaled them with stories of his childhood accomplishments, seemingly oblivious to Dorothea’s subtly cutting commentary. Ashe took his position at the back of the group, missing the calm of Mercedes before a fight and shooting a few concerned glances at Bernadetta who was creeping along behind them with a thousand yard stare in her eyes. And then there was Catherine. She took the lead, each powerful stride and cool glance from her grey-blue eyes reminding Ashe that she could cut Lord Lonato down without breaking a sweat. 

As the countryside around them began to look familiar, Ashe felt his stomach start to twist with dread. He pressed a hand to his chest and to the familiar lump of Lonato’s signet ring he had worn since his formal adoption had been recognized. 

“Feeling unwell?” a dry, amused voice said from beside him. 

“No, I am healthy, thank you,” Ashe replied, seeing Hubert fall into step beside him. Hubert was only a few years older than him, yet he had the bearing of every wicked sorcerer Ashe had ever read about in tales of chivalry. But he was Lady Edelgard’s retainer, and Ashe would not allow fantasy to cloud his judgement and make him rude. 

“You seem a bit pale. Odd to have asked to join us on a mission where your own adoptive father is at risk. Or was he really so despicable?” Hubert asked, an almost mocking smile playing at the edge of his lip. “No, I see by your face, you’re hoping to save him. Like a storybook hero, you imagine sheer bravery can facilitate a reconciliation.” 

“I do,” Ashe said, refusing to let himself be intimidated. If Hubert wanted to frighten him, he would have to do more than just play the part. “If this is a mistake, or if Lonato was misguided, he might still undertake penance. I am sure the Archbishop wishes to avoid more bloodshed.” 

“Shedding blood for a holy cause cannot stain her,” Hubert said vaguely, “otherwise, she’d be drowning in it.”

“If you have something to say to me,” Ashe finally sighed, tired of the needling, “then say it plainly. You don’t think my idea will work; that’s fine.” 

“If you were the only person you put at risk with this plan, I would be more than happy to let you rush into danger,” Hubert said evenly, “but if your recklessness proves a threat to Lady Edelgard and her ambitions, I am afraid I cannot allow that. If you do truly intend to join our house, so be it. But do be careful, Ashe. You are looking quite sickly. Perhaps it was something you drank. Illness can come on so swiftly in this climate.” 

Hubert faded back into the shadows, leaving Ashe with his thoughts. 

They stopped at the roadside by nightfall just as a cold mist was creeping in. Rain was common this time of year, but the damp fog was almost worse for cutting through clothing and leaving them to shiver. Edelgard finally stepped away from Catherine as they stopped and approached where Ashe was kneeling to re-string his bow. 

“Ashe,” she addressed him, “have you given any further thought to approaching Professor Jeritza about your transfer?” 

Ashe glanced over towards the professor. He was an enormous man, although light on his feet. While so far he had been nothing but to the point and direct, he made Ashe a little nervous. Professor Hanneman had been strict, but Professor Jeritza looked like he might dispose of you himself if you spoke out of turn. 

“I will, my lady, once we return,” Ashe said. The Imperial Princess looked at him, her face carefully neutral as always despite the eeriness of her violet eyes. 

“See that you do, Ashe,” she said, “I believe it would be beneficial. And if… if you know of other students who have an interest in serving the empire, our class could grow further. I will need skilled knights at my side once I am emperor.” 

Ashe frowned in confusion. Edelgard wanted to recruit other students to serve the Adrestrian Empire? There was something in her eyes that remained unspoken. He could not read it. 

“Report!” Catherine’s voice suddenly barked over the road. A scout had come rushing down the foggy path, stumbling to a halt in front of her. 

“The enemy is approaching! They can't be avoided. Their numbers are far greater than we predicted. They used the fog to slip past the knights' perimeter!” 

Edelgard immediately turned towards the road, but the fog had grown thicker, strangely thicker, making everything a grey blur. 

“Stay close to me,” she called firmly as the other students formed ranks with their own battalions. “Keep each other in sight and advance in a line. Ferdinand, take the cavalry towards the woods and make sure they don’t flank us from the right.” 

As soon as she had spoken, a man came surging out of the fog towards Catherine. She parried the blow easily, sending his sword arching through the air. 

“For Lonato!” the man was crying and Ashe saw with a sickening dizzy feeling that the man was barely armored, a village guard, not a soldier. 

Why was this happening? How could Lonato have brought his own people here to be slaughtered? And why? And if Ashe didn’t know why, how could he ever hope to stop it? 

Things began to move very fast. 

Edelgard’s troops surged forward and Ashe followed behind. The fog wrapped around him and for a moment he lost sight of her. A dark shape loomed to his left and he nearly let an arrow fly before a dark murmur of laughter and a flash of indigo revealed that it was Hubert. In the dark fog, his face was all strange angles and hard lines. 

Ashe ducked into a thicket of trees only to find Bernadetta and her battalion taking aim at a group of militiamen. Before Ashe could cry out, they had fired and men fell in a rain of arrows. Bernadetta’s face was terrified as she ducked back behind the tree, a scratch across her cheek trailing blood down onto her neck. 

“Keep advancing!” someone yelled and the radiant glow of thunderbrand cut through the dim grey in front of him. Ashe heard the groans and panicked shouts of men dying. 

He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t fight people he’d grown up beside, people who had come to his family’s restaurant or sheltered his siblings. If this was righteous punishment, he wanted no part of it. 

From behind him, he felt a crackling burst of energy and threw himself to the ground just in time to see a dark shape emerge from the mist. Ashe rolled on his shoulder until he was prone on his back and took the shot from the ground before he even knew was he was doing. A wet thump let him know the arrow had found a target and he watched the shape slump to the ground. 

Ashe crawled forward, unsure if he intended to try to heal the man or finish him off. He was lying in the ditch beside the road, holding the arrow with a few partially numb fingers as he tried to snap it off. Ashe could hear a whistling rattle that told him he’d pierced through the lung. The face of the fallen man was obscured, Ashe realized as he slumped alongside him, by a leather mask shaped like a bird’s beak. 

“Why are you doing this?” Ashe asked, pressing his hand to the wound. Blood welled up through his finger’s and the man’s chest spasmed in a cough as he laughed. “Why is Lonato having you fight the church?” 

“You’ll find out… soon enough… boy,” he wheezed. Ashe grabbed the mask and pulled it off. Beneath, the man’s face was unnaturally pale, but for the blood speckling his lips. His eyes were pale, but bloodshot, and there were deep purple bruises beneath them. Ashe recoiled slightly at the sight. This was no local militia of Gaspard territory. 

“What does that mean?” Ashe asked, hand still on the arrow in case he needed to drive it deeper. “Tell me what is going on!” 

“We are… rising… and Seiros will be made to pay,” the man laughed, his eyes rolling wildly in his head. “He’s with us now… and as long as we have him… no one can stop it… no one can stop-” 

His voice cut out as his chest spasmed and he drew a few airless gasps before finally falling still. 

As he did, Ashe looked up to see the fog almost melting away. As unnaturally quickly as it had come, now it simply faded back into the ground. Across the long road, Ashe now saw a man on horseback. His father. Lord Lonato was here. 

“Stop!” he yelled. “Wait, please, something isn’t right! This is a trick, or-” 

He ran as hard as he could, dropping the body of the mage he’d killed and sprinting through the chaos of the battle. 

“Lonato, please, surrender the battle!” Ashe kept shouting, hoping someone would hear, “this is all wrong, we’re all confused, just wait!” 

Lonato turned at the sound of his voice. The old man saw him, closed his eyes, and turned his horse towards Catherine. 

“No!” Ashe cried, but then a pair of arms closed around him from behind. Something covered his mouth and he gasped for air, but then his head began to spin. His vision swam. 

Lonato was charging towards Catherine. Thunderbrand glowed like an ember in her hands. His eyes sagged shut. 

When he awoke, he was propped against a tree at the side of the road. 

He could hear the sounds of the knights around them, people shouting orders and armor clanking as men moved up and down the road. His head reeled for a moment with what had happened, what had been about to happen. What had surely already happened now. 

Ashe slowly lifted his head from his chest and opened his eyes. Hubert was sitting beside him, leaning against a rock and cleaning blood from his shield with an expression of impatience. 

“I told you not to do anything rash,” he said flatly when Ashe’s eyes fluttered open and then he stood. “The battle is won now. Lady Edelgard and Catherine have gone to search the castle. If you wish to see it, the body is under guard in an old rivermill just off the road.” 

Ashe took a few deep breaths, still disoriented, but Hubert was already walking away into the darkness. Ashe squeezed his eyes shut and felt a few tears slip down his face. It was over then. 

He waited a few minutes, trying to stop himself from crying as his ragged breaths stuck in his throat. Not yet. He hadn’t told anyone about the mage. 

“Um, I’m sorry to disturb you,” a gentle voice interrupted after a few moments. Ashe opened his eyes to see Dorothea and a battalion of Sieros monks. “Hubie said to check you for injuries and take you to see Lonato once you were awake.” 

“I’m not injured,” Ashe said, wiping his face. He was bruised, but there was nothing he needed seen to at once. “I want to see Lady Edelgard.” 

“She’s at the castle, Ashe, but-” Dorothea began, her expression so tenderly empathetic that he felt tears welling in his eyes again. 

“I know how to get there,” Ashe said, rolling to his feet, “it’s my-- it used to be my home.” 

“But Ashe, Hubert told me to take you to-” Dorothea called out, but Ashe was already darting through the woods. 

He knew the backroads to Castle Gaspard. And he had no need to see a body lying in some empty mill. He needed to get to Edelgard, tell her about the mage he’d seen. If anyone would listen, if anyone would know what to do, she would. She was the princess, he was her knight, she would figure it out. He just had to get to her before she and Catherine found whatever lies that dark magician had planted there for them. 

By the time he reached the walls of the town, his lungs were burning. The knights were already there, but it seemed they’d left the villagers unharmed if they hadn’t taken up arms. Ashe scanned the crowd, searching for the faces of his brother and sister, but kept moving. 

He spotted Hubert again at the gates of the castle and hurried to follow him. Old habits were difficult to break, he thought with another stab of shame as he vaulted over the walls and nimbly balanced on a trellis to let himself in through the second floor window. 

Lonato’s private chamber across the hall would have what he was looking for if there was indeed something to find. 

Ashe crept through the window and rolled silently onto the floor of his old room, where he and his siblings had once huddled together in relief the first night Lonato had taken them in. There was his old bed, his shelf of books, everything Lonato had given him. 

And he’s dead now, an unpleasant voice seemed to whisper in Ashe’s ear, because you failed him. 

Gently, he opened the door and peered through the crack. The door to Lonato’s chamber was open and he saw Edelgard was standing there, looking through a pile of letters in her hand. Before Ashe could open the door wider however, he heard footsteps in the hall. 

“Lady Edelgard,” Hubert’s low drawl came from the hall and Ashe watched his shadow cross in front of the door. 

“Come in and shut the door,” Edelgard said, glancing down the hall after him to check if he’d been followed. Ashe hesitated. He had wanted to speak to her at any cost, but now he thought it might be better if he listened. 

As she shut the door, he silently swung the door of his own room open and stepped with practiced care over the squeaky boards of the floor to press his ear against the keyhole of the other room. 

“He knew the truth about the church, this confirms it. It is truly regrettable. Was there nothing more we could have done to save him?” 

“My lady, Catherine has already discovered the note on Lonato’s person. We are not in a position yet to defy our benefactors.” 

“I know. I just, well, we must do what we have to and save the ones we can.” 

“He was watching again tonight, my lady. The demon himself. They will be ready to unleash him soon. One false step and your path is lost.”

“My path is already lost. But I will not give in yet. The empire will remain and one day I will find a way to destroy them as well.” 

“A bloody path, my lady. But what assurance do you have that they will honor your bargain?” 

“None. But I have no choice. Just as I have never had any choice. There is only one road to walk and all I can decide is if I will stand still or if I will march forward.” 

Ashe heard Edelgard’s voice grow louder and sprang backwards and back into his room before he heard the knob turn across the hall and the door opened. 

“Give these to Catherine, burn the rest,” Edelgard said and then Ashe heard her footsteps in the hall. “And Hubert? Be a bit gentler with Ashe.” 

Ashe pressed his back to the stone wall of his room. The bookshelf was beside him, the leather bindings almost mocking him with their titles unreadable in the dark. He did not know what was going on anymore, not with anyone. Not with Dimitri, not with Edelgard, not with Lonato. 

The chivalrous prince was hiding a monster inside. The noble princess whispered in secret with a nefarious sorcerer about demons and bargains. The kind man who he had finally learned to call father had closed his eyes and turned away when the brave hero cried out to save him. And the hero? He was useless, huddled in his dark bedroom with blood on his hands and tear tracks in the dirt on his cheeks. 

He rose slowly. He needed to find his brother and his sister, see that they were alright. He would hold their hands and take them to see the body, make sure they were cared for. He would tell them a bedtime story before he returned to the academy, convince them it would be alright.

And it would be a lie. It would just be lie after lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find Ashe's idealism very interesting given that he has more reason than most to question the Church and ends up on Edelgard's side in many of the routes where he is not recruited. Next chapter will involve some Dimitri/Marianne depression and a visit from a certain mercenary...
> 
> Comment and I will personally cook you up a delicious King of Beasts Steak!


	5. The Goddess's Rite of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne finds herself among the Blue Lions when the Ashen Demon finally strikes.

_ Let me go away. Please. Sothis, hear my prayer, let me just go away.  _

She offered the words in her mind, hands clasped and fingers aching as she squeezed them together. 

“You alright, Marianne?” Claude whispered from behind her. He was always smiling at her these days, trying to coax her secrets out of her with his grin, and never offering any of his own in return. He didn't know the truth, though, because if he did, he’d quit asking.

Marianne nodded without saying a word and tried to slip further back into the crowd, out of Claude’s watchful gaze. The Archbishop was moving slowly in procession towards the Goddess tower, censor swinging in front of her and filling the air with fragrant smoke. Professor Manuela had told them to watch her carefully, to be mindful of any hidden assassins in the crowd. Claude had snorted under his breath at the suggestion. 

But, Marianne thought, if she were here, if she stood here and watched, then everyone was in danger regardless of whether assassins from the Western Church were coming. All this security, and the greatest threat was just standing here in the crowd, begging the Goddess to remove her, to take her away, to put her somewhere harmless. 

As she shifted in the crowd, she felt herself stumble over a foot and Leonie quickly drew her toes out of the way. 

“I’m sorry,” Marianne whispered, but Leonie only nodded. Her eyes were fixed on the second floor window, and as Marianne followed her gaze, she saw the monastery’s latest marvel was finally making an appearance. 

A small window was open, and a man was watching the procession. They had been told near beginning of the month that Captain Jeralt Eisner, a former Knight of Seiros was recovering from some injuries at Garreg Mach for the time, confirming rumors everyone had known for months. But Jeralt himself remained elusive, although it seemed impossible his wounds had not yet closed. 

As Marianne peered up at him, she thought she might understand why. He was barely skin and bones, his hair long and ragged despite the care he’d clearly received. From the distance, she couldn’t see his expression, but in the limp way he let his hands fall in his lap, and the slump of his shoulders, she recognized something of herself. If the church had taken in Captain Jeralt for treatment, she doubted it was merely to cure him of a blow from an axe. 

_ Can’t be here. Let me disappear, revered Sothis, let me just disappear.  _

Marianne slipped through the crowd, wrapping her arms around herself and trying not to touch anyone. If Professor Manuela asked where she had gone, she would tell her that she would be no help if a fight broke out, that the only safe place for her would be in the church, praying for them. 

She finally broke free from the crush of students and monks and townsfolk and nearly ran for the cathedral. Her eyes stayed focused on her feet, her fingers digging into her arms as she held them crossed over her chest. 

The idea of someone touching her, someone seeing her, someone even thinking about her filled her with dark, burning panic. To imagine that the Archbishop herself had come so close to her curse made a shudder run down her spine. 

The cathedral was strange and empty when she finally reached it, all the monks having gone to watch the rite. Marianne let her legs collapse in front of the altar and stayed kneeling before it for a few moments before her breathing began to slow. Slowly and painfully, her fingers unclenched and she held her hands in her lap again. 

_ Let them be safe. Let the calamity fall upon me and no other. Sothis, let me be the only victim.  _

The cathedral was the only place she felt able to relax. After all, the hallowed ground had to be able to stop her presence from marring it. When Margrave Edmund had taken her in, there had been no chapel at the manor. There, she had haunted the stables instead, but there was always a chance some stableboy or messenger might ride in and… and… 

“Can’t you walk a bit more quietly?” 

A hissing whisper interrupted her revery and Marianne turned with a jerk to look behind her. It was the Blue Lions, sans Professor Hanneman, picking their way cautiously through the pews. 

“It’s my naturally athletic build, okay? I take big steps,” Sylvain shrugged and Ingrid missed a swipe at his shoulder as he ducked away. 

“Pointless,” Felix muttered, stalking past them. Marianne drew back, gathering her skirt around her and scooting back so that the altar helped obscure her from view. 

“I don’t see anyone in here. The Goddess must be watching over us. Maybe we should try the library?” Mercedes said, glancing around the cathedral with a smile. 

“If someone does intend to steal from the Holy Mausoleum, they likely have already entered,” Dedue replied grimly. “And we no longer have someone to open the door should they have locked it behind them.”

Marianne finally spotted Prince Dimitri, the Blue Lion’s house leader who had been hanging at the back of the group. 

She had not spent much time with the prince of Faerghus. From what she had seen he was unremarkable but for his skill. He was polite, but always reserved, clever enough, but never cunning, strong, but never showy. He was the cut-out shape of a person to her. Her adoptive father would like him, but even his ambitions probably did not stretch as high as the throne of Faerghus.

And of course, there was the other thing that the students whispered about him. That he’d survived some tragedy, some attempt on his life that had killed his father and step-mother. He must be lucky, Marianne had thought. He must truly be very lucky. 

Dimitri crossed over to the side of the cathedral and glanced down into the hallway that led to the doors of the mausoleum, usually barred shut. He vanished from sight for a moment and then Marianne heard a crack, the sound of wood shattering and splintering.

“It’s open now,” Dimitri’s voice called back. The other Blue Lions moved to join him and Marianne let out a sigh of relief. 

“Wait a second,” Ingrid called out, pausing before she left the main hall of the cathedral. She glanced back around the room and then took a few steps toward the altar. “Someone’s hiding, maybe a lookout from the Western Church.” 

Marianne pressed her hands into her eyes in despair, and then slowly stood up. 

“I’m sorry, I was praying, I didn’t want to disturb you…” she said, her voice barely audible as she avoided Ingrid’s hard gaze. “I’ll just leave, I’m sorry.”

“You were praying during the Rite of Rebirth and you decided to hide behind the altar?” Ingrid asked skeptically, “I think I’d prefer to keep you in my sight if that’s alright.” 

“Please, no,” Marianne begged as the other girl crossed quickly to her and seemed prepared to grab her arm. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear, if you bring me with you, I’ll only be a burden.” 

“Uh, Ingrid, we’ve got trouble!” Sylvain’s voice echoed up from the stairs. Before Marianne could stop her, Ingrid had grabbed her by the arm and was marching her towards the stairs along with them. Trouble, Marianne thought, was exactly right. They were bringing trouble right into their midst. 

And then she staggered down the stairs and saw the Holy Mausoleum. 

It was filled with soldiers from the Western Church. Through the pillars, Marianne spotted several figures in robes attempting to pry open the large stone tomb at the other end of the long vault. Marianne staggered to a halt, her mouth open in shock. 

“That is the tomb of Saint Seiros,” Dimitri said. He had his lance in hand and was glancing down the long hall, apparently already forming a plan of attack. Already, the soldiers of he Western Church were closing towards them. As Dimitri’s gaze swept over Marianne, now standing beside Ingrid, his eyes narrowed in confusion for a brief moment, but then he seemed to shake it away. “We cannot let them get what they are after, head for the center stairs-” 

_ Not me. Great Sothis, please, don’t let him bring me with him. But don’t let me leave them to die in the peril I have created for them.  _

Before she could finish her prayer, a crackling whine of arcane energy split the air and a figure materialized at the center of the room. He rode a black horse. In his hand there was a scythe already stained rusty red at the edge. And upon his head, he wore a helmet shaped like a skull. 

By the goddess, what had she brought down upon them?

But by then the Western Church was rushing towards their group. Ingrid had let go of her sleeve. She was free to run. 

But she had created this. She had to at least try to stop it. 

Dimitri was shouting orders to the others, sending Sylvain and Ingrid up the right passage with Annette trailing behind to keep them away from the knight in the center of the room. Dedue brought an axe crashing down onto a robed priest, but before he could do anything, Dimitri had taken an arrow to the side from an archer positioned behind a pillar.

Marianne stretched out her hand. The light of the Goddess spiraled around her arms and she felt her hair blow back from the power contained in the glowing runes. She pulled the energy towards herself, feeling the power surging into her as the archer weakened and collapsed. His pulse pounded in her veins and she felt it slow and slow and then suddenly stop. 

Dimitri had finished him off with a javelin and their eyes briefly met. His narrow blue eyes were still sizing her up, deciding perhaps if she was here to help or sabotage them. She wasn’t sure of that herself still. And then he nodded once.

“We’ll take the left side,” he commanded. “Dedue, Felix, stay with me. Marianne, watch my back.” 

As they ran through the pillars and a confused network of stone coffins and shrines, Marianne glanced up at the knight by the staircase. His black horse stood, pacing and snoring slightly with energy, but he kept his hand on the reins and did not charge them. Why had he come? For her? If that was so, why didn’t he approach? 

Marianne turned her eyes forward again and flinched as a column of arcane fire nearly enveloped her. The light surged inside of her, protecting her, like the arms of the Goddess wrapping around her. This was the only good part of her. She had to use it. 

The flames ended and Marianne heard a wet groan as the mage slumped to the floor. Dimitri’s lance had gone straight through him with slightly alarming power. A swordsmaster lunged towards him as he pulled the lance back, but Dimirti caught his arm with his free hand and Marianne heard the crack of bones as the prince squeezed. 

He fought like an animal, Marianne thought. There was grace, skill, but also ruthless instinct. Beasts fought to destroy, to maim and to crush quickly so that they could not be hit again. 

Marianne felt the remaining energy of the swordsman draining into her, soothing the remaining burns on her arms until the skin was whole again. His pulse faltered, each beat strengthening her. He dropped to the floor, a broken grey husk. Let us be beasts then, Marianne thought, and survive. 

And still, the knight with the skull for a face did not move. 

Let him come for me alone, she wished, let him strike with the hand of the Goddess and let us both disappear. 

Stairs were ahead of them now, and beyond that the tomb. Marianne heard the grinding sound of heavy stone as the mage finally dragged the coffin lid off. It cracked against the ground when it fell, heavy granite fracturing into rubble. The mage reached down into the tomb, pulling something out with care. A sword, segmented and ridged like the spine of some enormous creature. These were not the remains of Seiros. 

“Drop it,” Dimitri warned, levelling his lance in the mage’s direction. He was breathing heavily, blood splattered across his face in a fine mist.

“Do what you will,” the mage panted from beneath his mask. His voice sounded hysterical, like he might laugh or cry. “He’s coming for it now. He’s here. He’s here.” 

Marianne turned, expecting to see the Death Knight bearing down on them, to see the scythe swinging towards her.

The knight had vanished. 

Instead, there was someone else standing at the base of the stairs where they had first entered. 

He was of normal stature. His clothing was dark grey, simple, practical. He walked with the posture of an experienced fighter, one hand resting on the pommel of a sword still in its sheath. Slowly, unhurried, his footsteps echoed across the room. 

Felix took the first attack. He was fast, his stroke perfectly aimed to sever the man’s sword arm. And the man stepped aside, his movement almost careless, like he’d known just when the strike would come. His counterstrike caught Felix across the chest and he staggered back against a pillar, blood blooming through his white shirt. 

With a cry of fury, Sylvain sent a javelin directly towards the man’s throat. He ducked, not even missing a step as he kept walking, and then ran Sylvain through the side as he passed, like he hadn’t even meant to strike, like he’d just held the blade out and let Sylvain cast himself upon it. 

When Ingrid swung for his legs, he caught her by the elbow and wrenched it back with a crack. Ingrid screamed and the man kept walking, still calm, still unbothered.

His hair was bleached a bone white, almost blending in with his pale face. His eyes were expressionless, empty, but as he drew closer Marianne could see that they were a dull red. He held his sword when Dedue charged him, but his eyes never deviated from the tomb of Seiros as he blindly found a gap in Dedue’s armor that left him hobbled on the floor. 

Behind him, Marianne could make out the shape of Mercedes, crawling to the limp form of Felix on the ground. Annette was huddled behind a pillar nearby, her eyes wide and terrified and helpless. 

“I said stop!” Dimitri called out again, holding his lance beneath the mage’s throat, “call him off!”

“You cannot stop a demon,” the mage wheezed, holding the sword out in front of him and pressing his own throat into the point of the lance. “Once he is called.” 

The man with white hair stepped up onto the dais with them. His dull red eyes were fixed only on the sword, his expression blank. There was no longing here, no greed or anger. 

He walked like a corpse, a ghost, a demon. The Ashen Demon. 

The clatter of the strange blade against the ground broke Marianne from her horrified trance and she saw that Dimitri had finished off the mage and now stood over the sword himself, lance held defensively across his chest. Hackles up, cornered. 

Beasts were always most dangerous when cornered. 

The demon stepped forward and Dimitri lashed out with the lance. With impossible speed, the demon pivoted to the side, the lance close enough to brush the dark coat he wore. The fabric rippled, but he was untouched. How could he have known? 

Then the demon’s hand caught Dimitri by the throat, lifted him into the air, and squeezed. He didn’t even turn his face to look, just dug his finger’s into the prince’s throat and waited. And Dimitri, who was stronger and taller and tougher than anyone... Dimitri gasped and kicked his legs feebly. 

Marianne stepped forward and stretched out her hand. Rings of light flickered in front of her and then exploded around the demon, pulling the life out of him with each beat of his heart. With each beat…

There was no heartbeat. 

The demon’s eyes finally broke from the sword and his empty face turned towards her. He released Dimitri, and Marianne heard the prince choking as he hit the floor with a crack.

“Predictable.” 

The voice the demon spoke in was bizarre, a low whisper, rough with disuse. He bent and picked up the sword. Marianne watched as the pale off-white blade began to glow, flaring orange as though enveloped in flames. And with the sword, the man’s red eyes seemed to briefly glow as well. 

He held the blade, expressionless, examining it as though he was merely curious. And then the air around him crackled, split with black and purple light, and he vanished. 

And Marianne was still standing. 

On the floor nearby, Dimitri was gasping for breath. He was holding his throat and Marianne could see blood dripping from his mouth. She raced to his side and pressed her hands gently to his neck, feeling broken and bruised airways sealing beneath her touch. His body shook slightly and he rolled over to his side, coughing until the blood had cleared. 

Annettte had staggered from her hiding place now and was pouring medicine into Dedue’s mouth. Marianne glanced over her shoulder to see Ingrid standing, although her arm hung useless and misshapen at her side. Mercedes was kneeling over Sylvain while a pale, patched together Felix hovered anxiously at her shoulder. 

“You… you saved us…” Dimitri’s hoarse voice came from beside her. He was sitting up, trying to wipe blood from his chin. Now that the fight was over, he looked younger, his face slack with something like wonder. “I don’t understand why… why you were even here, but thank you, thank you-"   


“No,” Marianne said and her voice came out harsher than she meant. “No, I did nothing. I couldn’t even touch that creature, that man. I put you in danger. I put all of you in danger.” 

“You… saved my life,” Dimitri managed to say, although his voice was soft and pained. “I don’t understand…” 

“You got lucky,” Marianne said fiercely. “That’s all. Just lucky.” 

As she said it, Dimitri’s expression changed for a moment and she saw that cornered animal look in his eyes again. A whipped dog. A spooking horse. A wild boar about to charge the lances. Then the sound of footsteps racing down the stairs made him turn and the look faded. 

Catherine and several of the knights of Seiros had arrived. 

“What happened here? Who could have… are these soldiers from the Western Church?” 

“The sword,” Dimitri rasped, barely making it back to his feet and leaning against the now empty tomb for support. “He took the sword.” 

“The Sword of the Creator? Who would have taken that relic? No one bears the bloodline for it,” Catherine jogged up the stairs and grabbed Dimitri’s arm to steady him. 

“He has the crest, I saw it,” Dimitri whispered, “the Ashen Demon has it.”

Against her will, the knights sent Marianne to the infirmary along with the other Blue Lions. 

Sylvain was still in bad condition despite Mercedes best efforts. Ingrid’s arm was broken in several places and even with magic, it might not heal straight. Dedue limped until he finally assented to allow one of the knight’s to support his weight, but Marianne saw by the way he kept glancing at Dimitri that he was far less worried about his own condition.

She had to wait a few hours in the crowded infirmary room before Professor Manuela tended to her and marked her as healthy. Each moment felt unbearable, sitting and watching uselessly while other people were in pain. 

“You’re in my class, what on earth were you doing in the Holy Mausoleum with the Blue Lion house anyways?” the professor said, dabbing a bit of salve onto the last of the mostly healed burns up Marianne’s forearms. She resisted the urge to flinch away at the woman’s touch. 

“I apologize professor, it was my fault. We were hoping to recruit Marianne to our house, you see,” Dimitri’s voice was still soft, but it sounded better now that he’d been treated. 

“Oh, interesting,” Professor Manuela said, giving Marianne an appraising glance as though seeing her anew. “Well, I suppose that is possible if you were interested in a transfer…” 

Marianne stood up sharply. 

“Might I be allowed to leave now, professor?” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on her shoes. “I have already told the knights everything I saw.” 

“I suppose-” Manuela began but Marianne was already walking from the room. Better for her to be further away from the wounded, from the weak. 

“Marianne!” Dimitri’s voice called out. He was following her, she realized with despair. 

“Please leave me alone,” she said, hearing her own voice shaking now. “You need to stay away from me, please. Oh goddess, forgive me, it isn’t safe to be around me.” 

“I- I will leave you alone if that is truly what you wish, I just-” Dimitri took a deep breath and Marianne finally raised her eyes and looked at him. His neck was covered in dark bruises and red blisters where delicate capillaries had burst. One of his blue eyes was swollen and quickly blackening as well. Blonde hair hung in disarray over his face. “It isn’t safe to be around me, either, apparently.” 

Marianne stopped at that.    


“I do not understand, I’m sorry,” Marianne said, taking a few more steps back down the hall. 

“That man came for the sword because we were trying to stop it, not for you. You weren’t even supposed to have been there, and that spell you cast was what saved me, distracted him, at least, enough to save my life,” Dimitri said urgently. 

“That spell was… I don’t even know if it did anything. That man was… he was so empty. I couldn’t feel a heartbeat even,” Marianne said. 

“No heartbeat?”

She nearly tripped backwards down the stairs at the sound of another voice. One of the other doors in the hall had a small barred window cut into it and through those bars, a face had appeared. Thin, scarred checks, long wispy beard; it was the haunted face of Jeralt Eisner. 

“What else, what did he look like?” Jeralt growled, pressed his face to the bars so hard it must hurt. “Was he… was he okay?” 

Dimitri immediately seemed to bristle at the sight of Captain Jeralt. 

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his demeanor already hardening as he turned to the door. 

“The man without a heartbeat,” Jeralt repeated desperately, “where did he go?” 

“He vanished,” Dimitri said. 

And Marianne, noting the momentary distraction, did the same. 

She hurried down the stairs, fingers already knotting again as she clasped her hands to her chest. 

_ Please, let me just go away. Merciful goddess, let me stop bringing monsters into my school.  _

_ Let me stop before I become one of them myself.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Divine Pulse is a hell of a power, huh? Thank you all for reading and commenting! Next up, we will have some Sylvain content! 
> 
> Comment now and my support with you will finally be high enough that I will request to join your class.


	6. Tower of White Winds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain recovers from his wounds. Dorothea twists the knife.

Sometimes getting stabbed in the gut had its advantages.

Professor Manuela, for example. He’d never stopped cursing his luck at getting stuck with dusty old Hanneman, but now he got to spend hours in the infirmary with her. She was older, but he didn’t mind older. And her beauty hadn’t faded so much as it had hardened, making her handsome rather than fresh and dainty. And of course, there was the cut of her dress.

And then there was the sympathy. Sweet Goddess above, he’d never gotten so many notes in his life. Practically every girl he’d ever gone out with, including a few he’d been certain would never speak to him again, had sent a card wishing him well. Other girls were dropping by the infirmary to coo over his bandages and blush tenderly as he winced in pain to reach out and hold their hands. Mercedes had been baking for him. Even Ingrid was nicer than usual, not scolding him or admonishing him as long as he consented to share some of the cakes and tarts with her.

After a week of lying in the infirmary, Sylvain was cleared for light exercise and that was where the real fun began. He couldn’t train yet and so Professor Hanneman despairingly assigned him to learn the theoretical basics of magic, which he mostly already knew anyways. And on top of that, every student in the monastery now wanted to hear the story of his heroism.

He described the encounter until not even he was certain of the details anymore. The Ashen Demon, the unnatural speed of his movements, the way he’d cackled as he reached for the blade… he had cackled, right? Who cared, though? He didn’t mind. He barely remembered it. Didn’t bother him to retell it, and half of the times that he did, the girl usually paid for dinner.

It was shaping up to be the greatest month of possibly his life, until of course, he ran into Dorothea.

Dorothea at first seemed like a natural choice. She was beautiful, famous, clever at conversation, and apparently not too bothered by attention from men. Sylvain had heard about her, but they didn’t tend to walk in the same circles at the monastery. She was as much his dream girl as she was his nightmare. Gorgeous, talented, too canny to be fooled, too experienced to be misled, and hungry for wealth and power. From what the other Black Eagles had whispered, he knew she had a tendency to let any young nobleman with a decent pension from home take her out.

Which was probably what made her rejection so shocking.

“Come on Dorothea, I’m just asking about one dinner,” Sylvain had pleaded. “It’s been a hard month, alright? I could use a friend.”

Dorothea’s eyes dropped to the wound at his side and he put a hand over it gingerly for emphasis.

“Oh dear, you’re right. How callous of me,” Dorothea said with a droll smile, “of course I’ll make sure you get your dinner, Sylvain. I’ll drop it off in your room tonight. If the pain is too unbearable, I can even spoon it into your mouth.”

“I’ve always liked a woman with a nurturing instinct,” Sylvain continued, limping alongside of her as she continued walking through the entrance hall. “Why not just give me a chance, Dorothea? I know you think I’m cheesy, but you’ll never find out if you're right without giving me a try.”

“Why not let one of your army of sympathetic girlfriends take you to dinner instead? Why me, Sylvain?” Dorothea replied, her voice still mild and her smile almost playful.

“Because you make me feel… ah, this is going to sound stupid, but when you smile at me, I feel weak,” Sylvain said. That wasn’t a bad line. He might have to write it down. “Just seeing you walk through the room makes my knees shake. I am wounded, Dorothea, but you’re the one holding the blade.”

Dorothea stopped walking and gave him an appraising glance. Sylvain smiled, but knitted his brows into an expression of tender worry.

“I’m tired of the game,” she said abruptly, “I’m tired of the lines and the pretending. I am looking for someone to love me, actually love me, and you are nothing but a waste of an evening. I’m sorry to be blunt, but something tells me you won’t be heartbroken for long.”

Sylvain’s smile dropped and he felt that ugly part of himself rising up, that furious misshapen piece of his heart that wanted to spit at her and make her sorry and watch her cry. He swallowed it back down.

“Ouch, Dorothea,” he said wryly, “you really think I’m incapable of loving you? I’m all about love, surely I could find some for you as well. Don’t leave me all alone, take some pity.”

“I think you enjoy going out with women, but you hate women themselves,” Dorothea said, and then she reached out and gave him a gentle pat on the cheek. “Goodbye Sylvain. I hope you feel better soon.”

As she walked away, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d just been gutted again.

But she was wrong, of course. He didn’t hate women. How could he hate women? Sure, his relationships had their ups and downs, but that didn’t mean it was all just some sadistic game. All of the girls who were flocking to him now, he didn’t hate them. Even if they were just after a title, a Crest, a child with the right lineage, he didn’t hate them for it. After all, take them away and what was left for him?

Who else would send the cards and the cakes, buy dinners, listen to his stories, visit his bedside, care about him even a little bit, even if it was for the wrong reasons?

Which is why he did not hate women. Dorothea, though, might be an exception.

Ingrid found him that evening while he was still fuming. She was sweaty from training when she poked her head in through the partially open door to his room, and from a glance, Sylvain could tell she was angry.

“Ingrid, come to visit the invalid? Rub it in my face that you’re already back to practice,” he said as she flopped down on his bed without asking. The bones of her arm had been magically mended, but she’d been working hours of extra training each night to ensure that the muscles healed properly.

“You know who is annoying?” Ingrid began, diving right in without stopping to even ask how he was. “Claude.”

Sylvain didn’t reply for a few seconds, scooting the chair of his desk around to watch her. She answered in a few moments without prompting.

“Did you know he reads other people’s mail?” Ingrid asked incredulously to the ceiling. “It’s… it’s more than just obnoxious. It’s dishonorable.”

“Did he actually read your mail, or are you sure the letter wasn’t just delivered to the wrong person?” Sylvain suggested. Ingrid was always very touchy about her mail.

“He as good as told me he did. He said ‘a good leader has to know everything, right?’” Ingrid did a deplorable impression of Claude, wiggling her eyebrows up and down, then she snorted derisively again. “Honestly, some of the so-called nobles here have no sense of chivalry, while the commoners behave like perfect gentlefolk.”

“You’re still bothered about Ashe?” Sylvain asked offhandedly. Ingrid had said quite a few sharp things to Dimitri over the last month about his mishandling of that situation, but the attack on the tomb seemed to have driven it out of her mind.

“Sure, Ashe. And others,” Ingrid said vaguely, sitting up and stretching her tired muscles.

“Which others?” Sylvain immediately pushed her. He could always tell when Ingrid was holding something back from him. As angry as they made each other, she was still his best friend. Or at least, the only person still capable of putting up with him. In the past, they’d had Felix and Dimitri as well, but now Felix was angry and solitary and Dimitri was just distant.

“Other students here,” Ingrid shrugged and then flopped down onto the bed again. “Like, I don’t know, like Dorothea. She helped me with some… personal things.”

Sylvain’s mouth went instantly sour.

“She sounds chivalrous. You’re getting my sheets all sweaty,” he snapped. “I’m going to bed soon, anyways, if you’re done complaining about Claude. I’ve been needing the rest what with the, you know, stabbing.”

Ingrid raised her head and self-consciously brushed at the bedcover. Sylvain felt sick. Sick with Ingrid and sick with himself for wanting to hurt her.

“Right,” Ingrid said, standing and looking carefully at him. “You are looking better, I apologize. If you need me to bring you anything or ask Professor Manuela-”

“Sylvain.”

Felix’s flat voice came from the door. Why on tonight of all nights did everyone seem to be dropping by? What was it about his bad mood that seemed to attract all of his old friends to suddenly pay him a visit?

“Felix, buddy! How are you?” Sylvain said, forcing an easy grin onto his face. “You ever find that girl with the lost bag? Was she cute?”

“She was- ah, it’s not important,” Felix’s narrow eyes rolled as though the very thought annoyed him. “I need to talk to you.”

“It sounds like she was cute,” Sylvain said with a knowing nod. “Come on in and talk. Ingrid and I were just chatting.”

There had been a time when Felix might have actually come to his room just to chat. Before he’d gotten so sharp and dangerous to speak with, he might have even been Sylvain’s closest friend. And now he was just Felix, who stalked in and out of his life, spoke in grunts and nods, and preferred to eat by himself.

“Sylvain, it’s something important. News from the Kingdom,” Felix said, his eyes darting briefly to Ingrid. “There was a hero's relic stolen. The thieves have taken over an old fort in Gautier territory.”

Sylvain felt his smile waver slightly.

“Ah, new mission then?” he asked lightly, although he knew what was coming. Brace for the blow, he told himself, tighten your stomach, don’t wince.

“It’s Miklan, Sylvain. He’s got the Lance of Ruin,” Felix said. “The Archbishop is sending the Black Eagles to handle it, but… I thought you’d want to know.”

Sylvain was proud to say that he didn’t bat an eye. He crossed his legs, ran a hand through his hair, and then shrugged.

“Ah, well, that’s my brother for you,” he said, and his voice didn’t tremble. “Glad they’re sending someone else, though. I’ve had enough people out to kill me this month.”

“Sylvain,” Ingrid said and her voice was so tender, so sad, it drove him crazy.

“Thanks for the update, but I really am going to head to bed early,” Sylvain said, gesturing to the door. “Sorry to disrupt the fun. Next time, though, Felix, that girl with the bag. I want details.”

He shut the door in their faces and blew out the candles. Then he lay down on his bed in the dark, feeling his side ache in protest as he stretched out on the mattress.

Even alone, he couldn’t seem to wipe the stupid grin from his face.

He hadn’t seen or heard from Miklan in years. And even when they had lived in the same household, they hadn’t been close. Miklan had a cruel streak. Or perhaps it was just the jealousy, the righteous fury that his younger brother got everything he was denied. He’d heard stories that Miklan had joined a gang of thugs. That he was cunning, but took malicious pleasure in tormenting those smaller than him. Full blood brothers, but Sylvain was here at Garreg Mach while Miklan roamed the roadsides and burned farmsteads to the ground.

But, Sylvian thought, they were exactly the same. All of Miklan’s cruelty was inside him as well. The only difference was that he had the Crest, the title, that made people look the other way. His smile turned to a crumpled grimace.

He didn’t sleep much that night despite the early start.

The other Blue Lions went out the next week to run training exercises with Fraldarius soldiers while Sylvain was still confined to the monastery. Although the invitations did not wain, he lost his interest in attending dinners and evening strolls and forest stargazings. Instead, he sat in the knight’s hall and watched the fire. Occasionally he leafed through an old book, diagrams of battles flooding through his mind without ever leaving a mark.

The only person to disturb him was a small girl with violet hair, who crept in like she was a scout in an enemy camp.

“I’m sorry,” she squeaked when he finally turned to acknowledge her. “Oh Bernie, look what you’ve done, disturbing him reading, he’s furious.”

“Uh, were you looking for something?” he asked.

“I was, ah...your friend. Your very scary angry friend. He was trying to give me my bag, and I made him drop his sword, and now he’s sworn vengeance against me,” she whispered. “And, um, he still has my bag.”

“He’s sworn vengeance on you?” Sylvain asked skeptically. If this was really Felix’s bag girl, well, she was cute in a totally insane sort of way.

“Stupid Bernie, he doesn’t need to know that,” the girl flinched and squeezed her eyes shut. “I was just hoping maybe you could, I don’t know, help me make amends. I can’t run any more, okay? I’m cracking up just waiting for him to end me!”

Sylvain felt something lighten slightly inside of his chest.

“I’ll make a deal, alright,” Sylvain said, “I’ll tell Felix he can’t kill you, but you have to meet with him again, in person, so he can finally give you that satchel.”

“But- but if he sees me, oh no, you’re setting me up! You’re working with him,” her voice sunk to a horrified whisper. “This is a set-up, a trap! You think I’m going to fall for that?”

She dashed from the room. Sylvain settled back in his chair. What a match Felix was making, he thought with a smirk.

When the rest of the Blue Lions returned from their training mission, he was feeling almost like himself again. Professor Manuela allowed for him to get some light exercise now that the fear of reopening his wound had passed and so he joined in at training with a strange sense of relief. It felt normal to hold a spear again, run drills, and even shock Annette with his newly developed and surprisingly competent fireball.

“You’re actually pretty good at this, you know,” she told him as they finished their lighter workout and watched as their housemates reset the training room for sparring.

“Eh, it took me basically a whole month to learn anything,” he shrugged. “So if I don’t get stabbed again, I probably won’t need to pick up more.”

Annette looked down at her lap as he said it.

“I’m worried about all of us,” she said quietly. “I know you’re alright, but seeing you go down like that, it was scary. Ingrid was shaking and Felix lost so much blood, but I’ve never seen his face so worried and even Mercie had nightmares for a week.”

Sylvain snorted incredulously at the idea.

“I was fine,” he sighed, “no need for anyone to worry. Next time I won’t run at any blades like an idiot.”

Annette looked up sharply.

“Next time? Next time that thing kills us. Next time the Ashen Demon finishes the job,” she said. “Don’t you get that what we saw wasn’t just some normal warrior? Something terrible is going to happen and when it does, I don’t think any of us will be ready.”

“Alright, I get it,” Sylvain raised his hands in concession. “I’ll train harder.”

“That’s not- ah,” Annette stood up and stomped out without another word.

Sylvain watched her leave. Poor kid was frightened. Who wouldn’t be? His own memories of the attack were hazy, but he remembered the man had been pretty odd looking.

A memory flooded his mind of the searing pain in his side, the expressionless pale face still turned towards the dais and the sword, the blade sinking into him without the man ever seeming to notice. But he was exaggerating that, right? He’d told the story too many times.

What had actually happened was that some mercenary had come in, snatched the sword, and Sylvain had made a fool of himself tripping into an unsheathed blade. And everyone had been fine. They were all alive, whole enough, and so why bother dwelling on the mistakes of the past? The church would track down the mercenary and then it would be over.

Professor Hanneman gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder as he left practice, although hearty from him was more of a nudge, and congratulated Sylvian on his recovery.

“Next month we’ll get a better training assignment, I swear. The Archbishop has been playing favorites with the Black Eagles of late, but once you’re all healthy again, I am sure she will take notice of our efforts.”

Sylvain smiled down a mouthful of acid. Of course, the Black Eagles had probably left now on their coveted assignment. What fun they must be having out there. Brace for the impact, he told himself, tighten up, and don’t wince.

But when the Black Eagles did return, he found himself unprepared. That Miklan was dead, he never had a doubt. He was ready to hear that his brother’s short and brutal life has been brought to a short and brutal end.

“His attempts to use the lance without a Crest proved unwise,” Edelgard announced as students swarmed around the gates to listen while the others from her house tramped back to get cleaned up in their rooms. Gilbert, the grim-faced knight who had accompanied them, stood at her side. The Imperial Princess was somehow impeccable as ever, efficient and unyielding as she reported to Seteth. “He was overtaken by its power and transformed into a beast. The remaining bandits fled while he was eliminated.”

Miklan was an idiot. A jealous, mean spirited, senseless idiot. Sylvain wrenched himself away from the gate and stormed back to his room, not wanting to hear anything more. Why did this hurt him? He should be glad Miklan was dead, be happy that he finally got what he deserved, congratulate Edelgard for ridding the world of a monster. So why did he feel so… hurt? Wounded again.

Gutted.

He slammed the door to his room and did not bother lighting the candles. Instead, he sat on his bed and lowered his head to his knees. He breathed slowly and evenly, feeling only the slightest tightness now where the sword ran through him.

Someone knocked at the door.

“I’m fine, Ingrid,” he snapped. There was no reply. The gentle knock came again.

When he wrenched the door open, Dorothea was standing there. Her hair was still tangled from the long road back from the kingdom and he could see sweat staining the arms of her robe. Her face looked stricken, pale, and rigid.

And she was holding a tray of food in her hands. Dinner for two.

He blinked a few times very hard and then held open the door for her to step inside.

Sometimes getting stabbed in the gut had its advantages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got some feelings about flirting to cover up deep insecurity that you are fundamentally unlovable. This was definitely one of my favorite chapters to write and I'm really proud of how much shipping I crammed in. 
> 
> To all who comment: well done, you have my thanks! (recieved mixed herb seeds x3, wild game x3, steel sword x1, Renown +200 points)


	7. Rumors of an Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedue looks for Flayn, memories of Duscur, and other old relics.

The door to Seteth’s office remained closed and Dedue shifted slightly against the wall where he had been leaning for a quarter of an hour. Muffled voices were still audible from within and so he kept waiting, preparing again and again what he had in mind to say.

“You shouldn’t have to go,” his highness had said bitterly when Dedue had received the summons. “Plenty of people spoke to Flayn that day, some of them _after_ you. The only reason Seteth has singled you out is because-”

“Because I am of Duscur,” Dedue had finished the sentence to spare his highness the indignity of having to admit it. “I do not mind. If it assists in the young woman’s recovery, I am even happy. To object would shame you, your highness.”

“It shames me every time I watch someone here assume you are untrustworthy,” his highness had said, passion bringing spots of color to his cheeks. “Please, Dedue, let me go with you at least.”

“I am afraid I was told to come alone, your highness,” Dedue had shaken his head. The concern was unwarranted, unpragmatic.

And kind.

As his highness was always kind to Dedue. He had pledged his life to the prince so many years ago now, it was almost strange to remember a life before. What purpose could that life have held, if not to protect his highness, to ensure his highness would ascend to the throne, to allow his highness to restore Duscur to a place of equality even if it cost his own life?

The Dedue who existed before Dimitri was a stranger to him, a boy from no place, from a lost place, nothing but a distant dream.

Inside of Seteth’s office, the voices rose in volume. Dedue caught a few words of an argument even as he shifted further down the hallway to avoid eavesdropping.

“-is the most likely person to have taken her!” Seteth’s voice rang out sharply from beyond the door. “You remember what happened last time, how long her recovery took! If the Ashen Demon truly does bear the Crest of Flames, that means some of our ancient enemies have indeed survived!”

“Enough!” a woman’s voice cut him off. At first Dedue did not recognize it, but as she continued to speak, he realized it was the Archbishop, although more furious than he’d ever heard her before. “He is not to be killed. This is not negotiable.”

“What Jeralt told you… that man has lost his mind, Rhea,” Seteth shot back.

“Do not presume,” the Archbishop replied. Then her voice softened and Dedue only barely made out the next few phrases. “She will be found...I am sure… and he will be captured... do not jump to such conclusions...”

Dedue drew himself back to the end of the hallway as the door finally opened and the Archbishop emerged. He glimpsed her face, returned to her usually gentle smile, before she turned towards her own chambers. Seteth followed her to the door and then glanced down the hallway to see Dedue.

“Ah, Dedue,” he said and then glanced back into his office. “You’re late.”

Dedue stepped into the room without comment. Seteth sat back behind his desk. He looked bad. There were dark purple circles under his eyes and his lips were cracked as he seemed to anxiously bite them without thinking. The weeks since Flayn had vanished were taking their toll, particularly since Professor Jeritza had also sent word that he was needed back in the Empire for the month and the monastery was still scrambling for a permanent professor.

“So, Dedue Molinaro, right?” Seteth said and Dedue nodded silently. “You had kitchen duty the day Flayn was last seen, correct?”

“I was preparing dinner for that evening,” Dedue confirmed. “Flayn came to observe. We conversed briefly, and then she departed. That is all I know.”

“What I struggle to understand is why Flayn would want to come speak to you while you were on cooking duty?” Seteth replied, narrowing his eyes. “She is, as I am sure you know, unable to cook.”

“She said she wished to learn,” Dedue said, bowing his head slightly. “She enjoyed a meal I had made and claimed that she wanted me to teach her. I do not fully understand why.”

“What makes you say that?” Seteth’s voice was cold. “If you really are such a skilled cook, why should she not wish to learn?”

“I am… I am from Duscur. My cooking technique, as well, is from Duscur,” Dedue admitted.

He recalled for a moment Flayn’s expression as she had watched him, delicate features so serious and intent as though she could absorb his skills just through her eyes alone. Those eyes of hers seemed old to him, attentive in a way students were usually not.

It had been odd to have someone in the kitchen with him. He usually preferred having the time to himself. It was not that she was intrusive or difficult exactly, but Duscur cooking was like a vestige, a steadily weakening anchor to memories of his family, his village, his people. While his stories, his language, his songs, had faded, the cooking remained. To have someone witness that with such attention made him feel the loss differently.

“Prince Dimitri did take it upon himself to send me a letter assuring me of your loyalty despite your origins. He claims you harbor no resentment or desire for vengeance that might cause you to harm Flayn or sell her to criminals,” Seteth said, pulling a folded paper from one of the drawers to his desk. Dedue’s brows drew together in shame. His highness had risked himself again for Dedue’s sake when it ought to be the other way around. “Is this true?”

“It is true that I would never consider harming Flayn or providing information to anyone wishing to,” Dedue replied firmly. “She is… she has been exceedingly kind to me.”

“And you have no resentment towards the Kingdom or the Church?”

Dedue felt his mouth grow dry. He would not lie about that. He was not capable of it.

“That is untrue,” he said slowly. “I do feel resentment. Even anger. But I would never take any action that his highness did not wish. If you trust his intent, you can trust mine.”

Seteth gave him a long, searching glare. Behind the coldness, there was desperation.

Dedue had been at the mercy of desperate men before, desperate to find some justice amid their loss. He did not wish to be again.

“Well, at least you are honest,” Seteth finally said, relaxing back into his chair and drawing a hand over his bloodshot eyes. “You may go. If I have additional questions, I will send for you again.”

“I will do anything in my power to assist,” Dedue swore. And he meant it.

He left the office with his tension unrelieved. He ought to say something to his highness about the ill-advised letter, but it was not his position to question such decisions outright. In another hour, lectures with Professor Hanneman would begin, so he returned back to the sunny academy quad. The days were long and warm now, although the mountain air kept it cool enough for those who were used to the cooler environment of the Kingdom.

When he did enter the Blue Lion’s classroom, however, he found a pair of unexpected visitors. His highness was sitting at one of the desks across from Claude von Reigan and Hilda Valentine Goneril of the Golden Deer House.

“Ah Dedue,” his highness said, smiling but looking mildly concerned at the same time. “How was the meeting?”

“As expected,” Dedue said vaguely, “I see you are occupied, I will withdraw until the lecture.”

“No, actually, I believe it would be best if you stayed to hear this,” his highness said and gestured to the seat beside him. “Claude has some… alarming tidings.”

Cautiously, Dedue moved to obey. What game was Claude playing this time, and why had he brought his perpetually unmotivated second-in-command along with him?

“Well anyways, it was like I was saying,” Hilda said with a tight smile. “At first we just thought Professor Manuela was sleeping in, like she does sometimes after the weekend. But she just never showed. And then again today, I went to check on her. Okay, well I sent Raphael to go check on her and he claimed she wasn’t in her room or in the infirmary. Or the dining hall. Not sure why he checked there too. But it’s like she’s gone missing as well.”

“So no Manuela, no Flayn,” Claude said, listing the names off on his fingers, “and while we’re at it, no Jeritza. An awfully unusual coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I agree it is odd,” his highness nodded, “perhaps I ought to inform Professor Hanneman. He seems to be the only member of the faculty left.”

Claude chuckled at that.

“Actually, I was hoping I might convince some of you to join me in a little investigation first,” Claude said, “I favor a… collaborative approach to solving problems.”

“Me too,” Hilda agreed, with a slight twinkle in her eye, “I collaborate on almost all of my assignments, my training, my chores…”

“You wish for us to assume some risk,” Dedue stated bluntly. “What is it?”

“In my head, this was all going to sound very tactful. Respectful even,” Claude said with a faint twitch of one brow. “But yeah. If I get caught poking around, it looks bad. But if all the house leaders get caught, well, it’s not an issue.”

“You intend to inform Edelgard, then?” his highness asked, his casual tone slightly belied by the sudden focus in his eyes.

“Seeing as it might concern her professor as well, yeah,” Claude shrugged. Dedue caught a glance between him and Hilda briefly. They were not saying something. That made him worry.

“It is only fair to include her in such a task,” his highness agreed. “And I must admit, it is sometimes nice when we can get along. After that fight in the mock battle, I am eager to see the two of you in action.”

“Let’s hope there’s no action involved,” Hilda said with a wrinkle of her nose. “The sooner this is over, the better.”

“I agree,” a cold, amused voice came from the entrance of the classroom. The four of them all jerked around to see Hubert leaning against the doorway. His chin was dipped into his usual menacing smile as he watched them with those narrow green eyes of his. “The sooner, the better, right? I will inform Lady Edelgard at once.”

Dedue was definitely worried now.

Edelgard joined them in a moment, fetched by her shadow in only a few minutes. She stood, although there were plenty of unused chairs available with half an hour still until the scheduled lecture.

“Well, Claude, Hubert tells me you are recruiting for a collaborative mission,” Edelgard said. “What is it you are requesting assistance with?”

“I want to break into Professor Jeritza’s quarters,” Claude said, crossing his arms behind his head and leaning his chair back dangerously on only two legs. “Care to join?”

“That is… utterly inappropriate, Claude,” Edelgard’s voice changed at once to exasperation.

Dedue watched Claude’s reaction carefully. He was perfectly capable of saying such a thing more diplomatically, so what did he have to gain by provoking Edelgard? Unless provoking Edelgard was the whole point of the operation.

“To violate the privacy of our teacher is beyond disrespectful.”

“He’s not here, though, right?” Claude said easily. “So what harm could it do? He’ll never notice.”

“Professor Jeritza received a summons from the Prime Minister,” Edelgard said, “and whether he notices or not is beside the point. What possible reason could you have for wanting to break into our teacher’s room?”

“Ah, figured you’d be curious about that eventually,” Claude replied, his hooded eyes unreadable, “well, naturally after Hilda noticed that Professor Manuela had gone missing, I talked to just about every single student at this monastery. Found out plenty of interesting things, too. Gilbert, wow, I can’t say I was totally surprised, but it’s still shocking stuff. And Shamir-”

“Claude, perhaps you might get to your point slightly quicker,” his highness asked with an apologetic glance at Edelgard. She ignored it. As she always tended to ignore his highness.

“In the end, it turns out a couple people had spotted Professor Manuela over the weekend. Guess what she had with her?” Claude asked.

“A mask!” Hilda answered without waiting for the dramatic effect. “Which leads us straight to Flayn!”

“Wait, Flayn has never worn a mask,” Edelgard frowned. “This is ridiculous. Although I shouldn’t expect anything different from you, Claude.”

“You’re pushing it, princess,” Claude said and there was warning in his tone despite the smile on his lips. So this was his game, Dedue decided. All this because Claude had some suspicion about Edelgard. “Your own Professor Jeritza claimed some facial injury that requires him to wear that mask. And if Manuela had his mask only a few days ago… maybe you ought to check with the Prime Minister. See if Jeritza ever showed.”

Edelgard’s face remained blank at that.

“Very well, then,” she said after a moment. “I see the rationale behind your investigation now. The Black Eagles will join you.”

“I’ve got a few of my best chosen, already,” Claude said. “Meet outside in fifteen?”

“Oh, make sure to ask Ferdinand, Edelgard,” Hilda added before she left, “he’ll search the whole monastery for us and we won’t have to lift a finger.”

Dedue glanced at his highness as the other house leaders left.

“I would like to volunteer to accompany you on this mission, your highness” Dedue said.

“Of course, Dedue,” his highness replied, “I only worry that if we are caught and punished, Seteth will penalize you more harshly.”

So be it, Dedue thought, so long as they allow him to remain at the prince’s side. His past was devastation, nothing from it endures but Dimitri. His future was Dimitri as well, and he would serve any penalty so long as they are not separated. He owed the prince a debt, a debt of a whole lifetime.

But his prince was also a seed. He had planted and tended it. He could not step away before it bloomed.

When they did meet outside, Claude had brought along Hilda and added Raphael, which was good because he seemed at least confident in his ability to fight. Edelgard had indeed brought along Ferdinand von Aegir, who introduced himself to Dedue for probably the fifteenth time, and Caspar von Bergliez, who Dedue assessed as often more of a liability than a help in combat.

His highness brought Mercedes with them as well, which struck him as odd initially although sensible if anyone did turn out to be injured. Mercedes always did seem intrigued by Professor Jeritza.

Claude led their way past the knight’s hall and through the gardens to Professor Jeritza’s chambers. It was unusual, Dedue realized, for him to live in such an isolated spot while most of the other officials kept their quarters nearer to the students. The door was locked, but Claude managed to pry open the window enough that he could lean in and unbolt the door for the rest of them.

The quarters within were spare and almost sterile at first glance. Weapons were laid out for cleaning on the table, but otherwise there were no personal touches. Not even personal correspondence, Dedue noted as his gaze swept over the shelves and desk.

“Oh no,” Hilda groaned as she stepped around the corner into what must be the bedroom. “This looks bad, actually, I don’t really think I’ll be much help-”

Dedue followed her in and saw Professor Manuela sprawled on the floor. Her hair was dark with crusted blood and while he saw a faint movement of her stomach that let him know she was breathing, she didn’t seem to be conscious.

“Oh my goodness!” Mercedes voice came from behind him as she immediately rushed to Manuela’s side.

“Check the rest of the room,” Claude had already ordered and Raphael crouched to the floor as if checking to see if Flayn might be stashed under the bed.

“She’s alive, but she’ll need healing right away,” Mercedes said breathlessly, one hand already aglow and pressed to the professor’s temple. “Someone should take her to the infirmary.”

“And inform the Knights of Seiros,” his highness added. “I think this should be sufficient evidence to warrant a search now.”

“I can get Manuela to the infirmary and inform Seteth,” Edelgard volunteered. “Hubert can assist me with carrying her.”

“Wait, I think I got something down here!” Raphael called out. “Let me just push that shelf a bit…”

He scrambled back to his feet and gave the bookcase against the wall a powerful shove. There was a tunnel behind it, Dedue saw, carved through the stone and then quickly angling down into the earth. He definitely did not like this now.

Edelgard was already gently lifting Professor Manuela onto her shoulder while Mercedes tried to keep her head steady. The Imperial Princess was strong, deceptively so for her relative stature. Dedue watched her silently and then watched Claude who had gone suspiciously quiet and observant again.

“Ought we not to wait for the knights to join us before we investigate this tunnel?” Ferdinand asked, looking somewhat uncomfortable at the thought of sliding into a dusty hole.

“How can we wait?” Caspar immediately balked. “Flayn could be down there right now with Jertiza! We’ve gotta get down there and bust him up before he does something to her!”

“Professor Jeritza,” Mercedes sighed, “I had hoped perhaps this was all a mistake, but…”

“I am inclined to agree with Caspar,” his highness decided. “We cannot risk waiting for backup and allowing something terrible to happen. Edelgard will see to it that the knights arrive soon, but for now, I will investigate the tunnel.”

“Well I am absolutely not going in that hole,” Hilda said, crossing her arms. “It looks disgusting.”

“I will go,” Dedue said before anyone could object. He ought to go first if there was danger. His highness must understand that.

The walls of the tunnel were tight around his shoulders, but he fit through without much issue. It smelled of damp soil within, but there was a tang of something else. Some strange sharp smell overlaid with the metallic odor of blood.

The tunnel widened quickly once it turned down past the level of Jeritza’s floor. Dedue had heard tales that the monastery was riddled with underground caverns and secret passages. Some people even claimed it was extensive enough for a fully subterranean city if properly explored. Why the church tolerated such a risk to its security was beyond Dedue’s ability to understand.

After a minute of crawling, the tunnel opened into a chamber, this time clearly an intentional construction. The light was dim, but magical glyphs on the walls and ceiling provided a yellowish glow. Dedue saw stairs at one end leading down to more hidden rooms or vaults.

In the center of the room, two bodies were lying on the floor. They were surrounded by the dusty remains of what looked like arcane sigils, some spatters of dark liquid, ashy remains of materials likely consumed in a ritual. One of them Dedue recognized at once. Flayn lay with her head back, curls of hair partially obscuring her face. The other girl was curled on her side, her hair a dark red and her face unfamiliar.

As Dedue knelt to check Flayn for a pulse, he heard the sound of the others sliding down behind him.

“Ugh, I’m disgusting now,” Hilda’s muttered as she had apparently been convinced to join. “And thanks for letting me borrow your jacket, Ferdinand! But, uh, you can have it back now.”

“Both are still alive,” Dedue said as Mercedes joined him at Flayn’s side. “But their pulses are weak. I believe they have lost a substantial amount of blood.” Not to mention, he thought, that there were only a few drops of that blood on the floor.

“How dreadful,” Mercedes whispered. “Oh, how could a person… what would make someone do this?”

“Looks like this place goes on quite a while,” Claude said, glancing down the stairs. “We ought to check it out just in case Jeritza is still here.”

“Allow me to lead the way again,” Dedue began, but Raphael and Caspar were already racing down the stairs.

“Dedue, I know you will not like this, but-” his highness sighed and then looked urgently down the stairs where the others were already sprinting ahead. “I need you to get these two to safety. I have plenty of help here, and I would feel better knowing you had gotten Flayn and the other student out of this place.”

“Your highness, I must remain by your side,” Dedue objected immediately. He had failed last time, crumpling helplessly to the ground while the Ashen Demon nearly squeezed the life out of his highness. He could not leave him again in danger.

Because what was he without Dimitri? Without Dimitri, he was merely a leftover relic, a ruin, a thing of the past. He was a walking tombstone, a memorial, and not a man. His highness must survive or he would crumble to dust in a stiff breeze.

“That is an order, Dedue,” his highness said, squeezing his eyes shut as though the look on Dedue’s face might hurt them. “Get the girls to safety, then return to my side.”

He took off running right as he said it, following the rest of the group down the stairs. Dedue clenched his fists in frustration. Flayn made a small sound, something between a whimper of pain and a gasp of fear. She needed him, now, just as his highness also needed him.

Dedue gathered her against his chest as gently as he could while also carrying the other girl on his left side. He pushed through the narrow tunnel towards the surface, feeling loose dirt crumbling into his hair and down the back of his shirt. He held his charges close, sensing each faint beat of their hearts pressed to his chest and counting them as he crawled.

When he staggered out into the light again, through the garden, he knew how it must look. He was large, filthy, almost monstrous to behold, clutching a pair of delicate young women in his arms. He was the man from Duscur, the potential threat, and here he was confirming it all.

But when he ran into Seteth, pale and terrified as he sprinted down the stairs into the entrance hall, the knights did not turn and surround him. Perhaps Edelgard had already warned him. Or perhaps his highness had considered this, Dedue realized. Perhaps he was not the dirty kidnapper from Duscur, no matter how much he felt the weight of that upon him.

Perhaps, at least for now, he was the savior, the protector, the loyal vassal.

“Is she-” Seteth asked, his voice thickening as Dedue froze in place.

“Alive,” Dedue confirmed, “both of them. The others are still down there, I have to return. Where is Edelgard?”

But Seteth had already pried Flayn from his grasp and seemed not to even hear the question.

One of the other knights took the other girl from him as Seteth was already sprinting back up the stairs with Flayn. As soon as she was out of his arms, Dedue turned and ran back towards Jeritza’s quarters.

He could hear the knights behind him. But not pursuing him, not chasing him. They were following him. And where had Edelgard gone? Surely if she’d had time already to warn the Knights of Seiros, she wouldn’t have just left them to investigate the room without her?

When he made it back to the tunnel, there was still no sign of his highness or the others who’d gone with them. Dedue practically dived through the tunnel again, not bothering to wait for the knights before he was running down the stairs. His breath came in sharp gasps as the armor on his chest and shoulders slammed against him with each step.

At the bottom of the stairs, the room widened again, but this time into a complex network of ruined walls, a floor tiled with faintly glowing glyphs, and rusting iron gates. Dedue could now hear the clash of metal ahead of him. So there was a fight. And he was late for it.

Bodies were already leaning against the walls or sprawled across the floor as he sprinted towards the sounds of battle, cursing each time he found another twisting passage or hallway. At a glance, they appeared to be soldiers rather than bandits, although they wore no clearly visible insignia of an army or nation.

Dedue rushed past a few crumbling pillars and saw the remains of an old iron gate ahead. Mercedes was pressed against the wall beside it, looking fearfully over her shoulder into the room beyond.

When Dedue staggered, panting with exertion and desperation, into the ruinous chamber, he was met with a sight he could not have suspected.

At the center of the room, the knight with the skull helmet was standing over a glowing runed tile, the light casting bizarre shadows over his intricate armor. The students had surrounded him and Dedue let out a breath of relief when he saw that his highness was bloodied but still standing.

But in front of the death knight, there was someone else. Someone new.

There was a person in a long robe, clearly well armored beneath. Not the Ashen Demon, he realized with relief, or at least, not as they’d seen him before. This person also wore a helmet, but this one masked with a simple faceplate painted in red and white. Tendrils of red stylized flame curled over one half of the expressionless carved face.

“I said, go!” a low, harsh voice issued from the masked warrior. At first Dedue assumed he was speaking to them, but the masked face turned to stare up at the death knight when he spoke. “Leave!”

“I have had my fun,” the death knight spoke in a distorted bass, and then he flickered with dark violet streaks of arcane energy and was gone. His highness made a sound of frustration, and a single arrow from Claude clattered against the wall where the death knight had vanished.

“All of you must leave this place,” the remaining masked figure said. “Go now. You have what you came for. Further efforts to resist are pointless.”

“Oh, we’d love to resist, actually,” Claude immediately replied, “unfortunately, we’ll need you to accompany us. I’ve got an urge to get to know you better.”

“Please leave,” the masked figure repeated, but this time Dedue was not certain it was a threat anymore. “Leave and stop this pointless meddling… or they will send something worse. I can be reasoned with. There is another who cannot.”

“I do not understand,” his highness said, refusing to back down, “if that knight rides under your command, how can we just leave you in peace? If you really can be reasoned with-”

“I am not who you believe me to be. Nothing you know is as you think it is. This is not a question of what is right or wrong anymore,” the masked figure spoke forcefully. “This is a fire. You either run or you are consumed.”

Dedue’s fingers closed on the handle of his short axe, shoulder muscles tensing for the throw.

But then the masked figure did something, a flash of light exploded on the floor that left him nearly blinded, and before any of them could move, the figure had been warped away as well.

The room was silent for a moment. Distantly, Dedue could hear the footsteps of the other Knights of Seiros who had been following behind him.

“Don’t know about old flame-face there,” Claude broke the silence. “But usually in a fire, I think you’re supposed to try dousing it first.”

And that was that. They had played their part now and the church arrived to shelter them and send them back up into the light and back to classes and training and the normal rhythm of life. A rhythm that felt odd and irregular now with the knowledge of what might be lurking beneath their feet.

Only a week after the incident, Dedue watched a couple strolling through the greenhouse together while he knelt at the back, clipping a few fresh herbs. How strange, he thought as he dug his hands into the dark earth, that they had no idea what might be happening right below the peaceful grounds of the academy. Old things. Forgotten things.

When he returned to the kitchen, he rinsed the basil leaves, pumping clear water up from the well, and he considered its long path to get there. He was so absorbed in thought, it took him a moment to realize he was not alone.

“Um, I beg your pardon,” Flayn said hesitantly. She was back on her feet then. That was good. “I have come to offer my gratitude in person. I hear my brother already has, on my behalf, but I wished to speak with you as well.”

“You are welcome,” Dedue said. He was unsure what more she might require him to say and so he moved to the table and began the laborious process of mincing the basil leaves.

“That smell… it is already deliciously fragrant,” Flayn’s voice lifted with wonder as she approached the counter beside him. “Might I… might I watch you again as you work? I am still most interested in learning your technique.”

“I am not sure it would be advisable,” Dedue shook his head, keeping his eyes on his work as he spoke. “Your brother may be upset to have you so close to someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” Flayn asked, her tone conveying genuine confusion. She had led a sheltered life, he supposed, it was conceivable she had been unaware of his background. “You mean someone capable, strong, able to protect others as well as themself? Someone who can make delicious food for people, keep them safe, and provide them with joy? I hope you see that someone like you is all I wish to be.”

“Someone from Duscur,” Dedue added softly. “Perhaps you are not aware of how your reputation might be-”

“May I tell you a story?” Flayn interrupted suddenly. Dedue finally looked up. Her bright green eyes were resolved, the strangely luminous color making her almost otherworldly as she stood beside him in the kitchen.

“I want to tell you about the girl who fell asleep. There was once a girl who lived in the ancient past and she knew her world well. She had visited each corner, carried by the winds themselves. She had friends and she knew stories and jokes and ways to dress and ways to speak. And then one day… the girl fell asleep. And she slept and slept and then woke again, but when she woke, time had worn away hundreds of years. And everything she remembered, every person she knew, every song and story, was almost forgotten. The cities she had walked in were ruins. And the language she had spoken was unheard. But still, life flourished. And the girl asked herself, why should it break my heart to awaken in this beautiful world? If I am cured of my weariness, why does it frighten me so much to lay down my head at night?”

Flayn stopped speaking then. Dedue realized he had gone still as well, the knife in his hand still poised over the remaining leaves.

“Is that the end of the story?” he finally asked. His voice sounded rougher than he would like.

“I don’t think so,” Flayn replied with a flicker of a smile. Dedue felt something hard and protective inside of himself give way at last.

“Fetch me some water,” he said, “we will need to let the root vegetables cook while I finish the sauce.”

“Yes, Chef Dedue!” Flayn immediately said, her manner at once reverting to her usual bright energy.

And the water welled up from its source deep beneath the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really love Dedue, okay. Next up, we head to Gronder with Lysithea and encounter an unexpected threat. 
> 
> Comment and I will book you for a refreshing trip to the sauna, even if your heat tolerance is way lower than mine!


	8. Field of the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysithea makes a strategic academic alliance with Linhardt. And maybe holds his hand a little too.

Honestly, everyone was surprised that the battle was even occurring. It had been a difficult year at the Officers Academy. The Black Eagles had lost their professor _again_ and now Seteth was forced to spread himself even thinner covering their instruction. Professor Manuela was still recovering from her injuries, apparently afflicted by a strange weapon that stubbornly resisted magical healing.  And of course, the rumors of the Ashen Demon had been not just confirmed, but directly witnessed by most of the Blue Lions. 

Lorenz had suggested that some of his higher up connections told him that the Church was considering sending them all home for the rest of the term until the Knights of Seiros could track down the perpetrators. 

And that? Well, that could not happen. Lysithea did not have a year to spend sitting back at home, waiting for another chance at the Officers Academy. So it had to stay open and she had to finish the term and if anyone tried to get in her way, let them try, just let them try. 

Gronder Field spread out below them as the students tramped down from the old fort where they had made their temporary camp the night before. It had been a long, tense journey from Garreg Mach. Guards patrolled the air on wyvern and pegasus-back and scouts spread out through the forest ahead of them to ensure there was no waiting ambush. Mages were stationed throughout their ranks to ward away anyone trying to warp into their midst. 

The Bergliez family had apparently volunteered to provide them with additional security so that their mock battle would be ringed in by professional soldiers on each side. 

The mood among her fellow students was grim. Claude had been so keen to win after the first mock battle, but now he hardly talked about it, instead spending his days skulking around the monastery asking weird questions like “do you know if this cistern has been used recently?” and “did that man in the market have a scorpion tattoo by any chance?” 

Lysithea wished he would put in a bit more effort. This might be her only chance to earn a victory like this. Time was racing by and she could not afford to waste it

That was not to say, Lysithea thought as she saw the assembly of monks and professors watching them prepare for the battle, that she wasn’t afraid. She was often afraid, loathed as she was to admit it. Fear could be helpful; it brought with it awareness, caution, and energy. The stories of the Ashen Demon and now a strange warrior with a mask of flame were not absurd phantasms meant to keep children in their beds at night, they were real. 

The trouble was, a lot of Lysithea’s ghosts had turned out to be real. 

The Golden Deer were placed in a wooded corner of the large field. Claude stationed Hilda, Lorenz, and Ignatz with battalions facing the river where the Black Eagles would approach from. Raphael and Leonie would charge the Blue Lion flank once they were engaged to the south with the Black Eagles and then she and Marianne would take their soldiers behind to mop up the remnants. As long as the Black Eagles and Blue Lions did indeed decide to go for the fortifications at the central hill, Lysithea had assessed that it was a decent plan. 

If she’d been in charge, she might have favored a more decisive strategy, but, of course, Claude would never deign to ask her. Hit them hard, suddenly, and place her bets on their superior strength rather than their evasion. 

The morning mist was burning away and she found herself fidgeting restlessly while the troops formed up and the professors had last-minute discussions with the house leaders. It was tiresome. She ought to sit down, conserve her energy for the fight. 

“Hey Lysithea!” Raphael called out to her from his position about twenty feet ahead of her. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, apparently trying to keep limber at the expense of tiring out early. “You bring any snacks with you? It looks like we’re not getting a lunch break until this thing is over!” 

“You shouldn’t eat right before you exercise,” she replied. He probably thought she didn’t know that. Of course, she did. And even if she had put some carefully wrapped macarons in her bag, she would never let anyone find out. 

“Sure, maybe not a big meal, but I’ve got some walnuts I picked on the hike down here if you want any,” Raphael said, shaking a few shelled walnuts out into his hand from a pouch at his belt. 

“I can manage my own appetite, thank you,” she replied, her voice sounding more shrill than she wanted. “Shouldn’t they be starting soon?” 

“I think Seteth is doing one last security sweep on his wyvern before they begin,” Raphael said, squinting up at the sky, “pretty impressive that he’s letting Flayn fight, huh? I’d have thought he’d have his little sis locked up safe in the monastery with all that’s been going on.” 

Lysithea peered across the misty field to see the distant shape of Flayn, now decked out in the colors of the Blue Lions. They had finally removed the bandage from her arm, although the injury itself had only been a single deep prick from a needle. Lysithea’s stomach still twisted at the thought. Raphael had also been in the fight in the underground chamber, but apparently Dedue was the one who’d earn Seteth’s trust to defend his sister. 

“Just because she’s young doesn’t mean she’s helpless,” Lysithea objected. “I’m glad she’s getting the opportunity to train herself.” 

“Course, you’re right,” Raphael shrugged. “I’m just saying, it has been a scary year for her. For all of us, really!” 

Lysithea could see through his clumsy attempt at once. He wanted her to admit she was frightened. 

Well, she wasn’t frightened. If the absent Professor Jeritza tried to make an appearance now, she would certainly be cautious. But she had already survived the things he had most likely attempted to do to Flayn. She could either survive it again, or… well, she wouldn’t be missing out on too much. If she could just take a few enemies down with her, she could make her peace with that. 

No, what actually frightened Lysithea was absurd. The living could do very little to her that might not happen by itself in just a few more years. It was the dead that scared her. 

When she was very young, her mother had read to her from a book of old stories, silly children’s legends mostly. But one of them was an old Kingdom tale, a myth about souls who died without justice or without obtaining their revenge. Those spirits were trapped forever in a freezing cold city beneath the ground, doomed to wait until one of the living took up their cause. 

Lysithea worried most about those spirits. Because she would likely never find the ones who wronged her, and she would certainly die before her revenge was concluded. Cold and dark forever, huh?

Across the river, the Black Eagles had apparently finished their preparations as Edelgard had taken her position at the head of her troops. All of her students, along with that boy who’d transferred from the Blue Lions, were in position, except of course for Monica who was apparently not recovering as quickly as Flayn had. 

Edelgard was, Lysithea thought, probably a better house leader than Claude. She was determined, focused, and would never dream of sleeping in and missing training. That and her hair… that odd shade. Lysithea wondered, but said nothing of it. She was an Imperial Princess after all. Edelgard was clearly exceptional in many ways. 

Claude finally came jogging back to their position and took up his own assigned place in a stand of trees. Apparently he intended to hang back and take cover until he had to pick someone off. Low risk, Lysithea thought, but most likely low reward. 

“Alright, his princeliness is finished checking for traps and Lady Rhea is about to give the signal!” Claude called to the waiting battalions as he passed. 

“Claude,” Lysithea scoffed, “you wouldn’t seriously consider trying to cheat Prince Dimitri in a mock battle, would you? It defeats the whole purpose of training.” 

“Course, I wouldn’t, kiddo,” Claude laughed, which made her grind her teeth. “I just implied that I did do something to cheat and now he’s gotten himself so focused on checking for my traps he’ll probably slip up and let Edelgard run circles around him.” 

Lysithea rolled her eyes. If he would just concentrate on training instead of these absurd schemes, he wouldn’t have to cheat to win. 

Far above on the hill overlooking the vast field, Lysithea could barely make out the shape of Lady Rhea. The shadow of a bird passed overhead and then there was a flash of white light from the hilltop. The battle of the Eagle and Lion had begun. 

Edelgard’s troops immediately surged across the river. Lysithea saw out of the corner of her eye that Dimitri was advancing as well, sending Ingrid, Felix, and Sylvain to meet the Black Eagles as they bottlenecked at the bridge. If he intended to capture the arms at the center, however, he would need a halfway decent archer who wasn’t currently fighting alongside his opponent. 

“They’re taking the bait,” Claude yelled from behind her. “Move forward and press their right flank. Lorenz, Hilda, get Ignatz onto that fortification and let him work!” 

Lysithea called out to her own battalion in turn and they moved forward, cutting through the trees until she could see Dedue and Annette’s battalions advancing towards the central fortress ahead of them. Claude’s plan appeared to be working at least. The Blue Lions would put a dent in the Black Eagles, giving them time to take the fort and rally there to pick off the remnants. 

Raphael whistled through his teeth as he sent his battalion crashing into Dedue’s while Leonie brought her unit of calvary around and barreled down to finish them off. Lysithea saw Annette turning and shouting to her own monks, but she wouldn’t give the other girl the chance to finish. 

If Annette was known to be a hard worker, well, Lysithea had worked harder. Lysithea had worked until she collapsed over her books, until her eyes were red and watering, until her hands shook with fatigue. If Annette wasn’t willing to give it everything she had, she would never stand a chance.

The darkness surged up from the ground below Annette and a swarm of black, sticky arcane sparks swarmed around her battalion. Lysithea felt her blood flare hot, too hot, dangerously hot, and the spell yawned wider until all of the monks were enveloped by it. She saw Annette fall to the ground, her legs mired in the darkness, and Lysithea’s mouth stretched into a small smile. 

“You were outmatched,” she whispered to herself. She glanced up and saw that Dimitri had left his starting position, followed closely by Mercedes and Flayn. If they could take him down, there was a good chance the Golden Deer might win the entire battle. 

Lysithea turned to admonish Marianne, hanging too far back as per usual, but as she did, a cloud passed over the sun. 

It was a thick cloud, dark and heavy with rain, and it plunged the entire field into a strange sudden twilight. The sounds of battle briefly died away and a murmur ran through the assembled monks and knights watching them. 

Mist was rising from the grass, but this time with unnatural speed. In seconds, the whole field was covered once again in a damp fog. _No_ , Lysithea thought, clenching her fists and glancing over her shoulder to look at the now pausing Dimitri, _please not today_. _Let me just have today. Let me just have another year to train, to grow up a little more, to be a student._

She saw a blazing orange glow at the edge of the field. A blade was shining like it burned from within, but its wielder dragged it carelessly along the ground as he advanced. When his face emerged from the curtain of fog, Lysithea saw her ghost. 

She’d seen ghosts like him before. 

Pigment had bleached from his hair, eyes, even his skin. His face was unfeeling, almost like he was sleepwalking. His simple grey clothing was soaked already in blood. He must have cut his way through their perimeter of guards. The Ashen Demon was here to win the battle. 

As soon as he was visible, people began to panic. Lysithea saw her own battalion beginning to back up, instinctively creeping away from the disturbing sight. He was making for the central fortification, she realized as Lorenz and Hilda were already in full retreat with Ignatz staggering close behind. 

“Back up!” Dimitri broke the eerie silence, “don’t engage him. Protected retreat!”

The Ashen Demon’s face turned in his direction. His face registered nothing, eyes almost vacant, but he spoke. 

“Leave no one behind, stay together, and get to cover,” the Ashen Demon said, but for a moment Lysithea thought her ears were tricking her. Because his voice had… echoed? No, that wasn’t it. 

Because he had just spoken in perfect unison with Dimitri. 

Dimitri cut off before the last word, his eyes going wide as he realized what was happening.

“That’s funny, what I’m doing,” the Ashen Demon said without smiling. “Ha. Very funny.” 

Impossible, Lysithea thought, her heart pounding so hard she worried she might actually faint on the field and be left for dead. The ghosts she had known had the power to impart Crests in those who had never born them, not read minds. Or had the demon been reading minds? 

“I am here for Rhea,” the Ashen Demon spoke, his flat voice now raised until it rang out over the whole field. “The Archbishop is corrupt. She is a tyrant who would see this land wither and die before returning it to its rightful leaders. All we seek is her death. Give her to us, or become her collaborators.” 

And then it was pandemonium. Everyone ran. Lysithea ran. Her battalion ran. There was no organized retreat, no order, no leadership. Just panic. 

She would have no chance at a contest of speed, and so she ran for the treeline instead. A few other students pelted in the same direction, but Lysithea had no idea if they were her housemates or her opponents anymore. Her feet slipped on the grass, now wet with the strange mist, and she fell. Her palm skidded over rock and she felt blood welling up, but she pushed herself up and kept running. 

Once she made it to the trees, she spent a few precious seconds darting aimlessly through the brush. Find cover, she told herself harshly. Not somewhere obvious, somewhere difficult. She saw ahead of her another channel of the stream and beside it a patch of dense blackberry bushes. It would hurt, but it would be out of the way. 

She pushed through the brambles on her hands and knees, trying not to break them as they raked harsh red lines across her hands and face. The brambles lashed her like razor sharp whips, but Lysithea crawled until the sky overhead was totally obscured by their branches. 

Then she lay flat on the ground and kept very still. 

The earth beneath her was damp and cold mud soaked up and into her uniform. Her hand throbbed and tingled while the scratches on her face pulsed with sharp pain. Around her, she could hear the sounds of people running in the distance, of heaving breathing, of someone’s breath hitching in panicked little sobs. 

Her sobs, she realized. Pathetic. Illogical. She needed to keep quiet. She pressed her arm over her mouth and tried to force the cries back down. Instead, her chest spasmed and twitched as she lay there, eyes watering with fear as she gasped in occasional hitching breathes through her nose. 

She lay there for probably twenty minutes before the crying stopped. The woods around her were totally silent, but for the natural noises. Wind shifted branches. The stream rushed along beside her. Birds were even singing. How absurd. 

And then someone very close to her yawned. 

She jerked instinctively, reaching her hands forward to conjure miasma from the air. 

“Woah there, sorry,” a low male voice spoke, just above a whisper, “it’s just that lying here so long is making me quite sleepy.” 

Linhardt von Hevring, she realized, from the Black Eagle house. She’d seen him in the library almost as often as her, although he had rarely been fully conscious. He was lazy, unmotivated, and, unfortunately, particularly talented in the field of Crestology. In short, the worst possible person to have chosen to hide in the same blackberry brambles as her. Well, maybe the second or third worst, given the circumstances. 

“Quiet,” Lysithea hissed back at him, feeling color rising in her face as she wondered how long he’d been there. She couldn’t see him through the brambles, but he sounded close. “Find somewhere else to hide, this spot is taken.” 

“If I move now, it would only draw attention to you,” Linhardt replied calmly, as though explaining a difficult arcane theorem, “and if we are discovered, our odds are better as a unit. Are you injured?

“No,” Lysithea said, curling her scraped hand to her chest. 

“Well, then, Lysithea isn’t it?” Linhardt sighed quietly, “any plan? I’m about to drop off if I don’t move soon.”

How he could possibly be calm enough to fall asleep now was one of many unsolvable mysteries of the day. 

“Plan?” Lysithea whispered back sharply. “Why ask me? There’s nothing to do but lie here and wait and…” 

“Exactly. We have time. Very valuable thing to have in a situation like this,” Linhardt replied, his low whisper almost amused sounding. “And ‘why you’ is easy. You are clearly the most talented student at the academy currently. If anyone is going to think their way out of this, I’m certain it will be you.” 

“Talented?” Lysithea huffed, despite what he’d clearly meant as praise. Talented is what everyone called her. Gifted. Well, her power had certainly not been a gift. 

“Oh, don’t think I am referring solely to your unique Crest situation,” Linhardt continued, “although it clearly makes you powerful. It’s your mind, not your blood, that we need right now.”

Lysithea had not previously thought it possible for a single conversation to plunge her into the absolute suffocating cold depths of dread and simultaneously pay her the best compliment she’d ever received. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she finally whispered back, “my Crest is my own business.” 

“Please, let’s not play that game anymore,” Linhardt patted back another yawn. “You know that I know. Half of the time when I’m napping in the library, it’s more like I’m… resting my eyes. However you ended up with two Crests is still mysterious to me, although perhaps when we return to the monastery you’ll allow me to look into it?” 

“I am not,” Lysithea spat the last word out with venom, “your research subject.” 

Linhardt went quiet at that for a moment. 

“I wonder then,” he finally said, “how a person could come to possess the Crest of Flames, a power thought to have been lost centuries ago?” 

And something clicked inside Lysithea’s head. The fear and embarrassment faded away. She barely felt the stinging cuts or the cold wet ground below her.

This was a problem she could solve with her mind, just her mind. She might be the only person who could. 

She had never looked into the subject of her own abilities academically before. Partially it was simply unpleasant to think about. But she could have pushed through that. She could have worked around it. 

No, the problem had always been that she strongly suspected she would find nothing. The people who had used her as an experiment did not write books for the Garreg Mach library. She had seen them change their shapes enough to know that even if she devoted the rest of her short life to tracking them down, she would likely never catch a glimpse again. It would have been a waste of time. 

But now? Now she had a face to begin with. The Ashen Demon’s blank, empty face. Lysithea took a deep breath and spoke. 

“Speaking hypothetically, for a person to possess an extinct Crest, it would have to be implanted in them artificially. Such a process would likely have numerous side-effects. The loss of pigmentation. Hypothetically,” Lysithea murmured slowly. “For a group to possess this power and keep it hidden, they would have to operate outside the ethical parameters of the Church. To acquire the necessary resources, they would need agents who could gain influence at high levels of government across Fódlan. Such a group would need arcane means of disguise. That would allow for infiltrations even when security against them was meant to be foolproof.” 

Linhardt lapsed into contemplative silence again for a moment. 

“The Ashen Demon might be an agent of a larger faction, then,” he said finally. “In which case, more research would be needed. But only those who were certain not to be his collaborators could be trusted with such an investigation.” 

“Students, then, hypothetically,” Lysithea added breathlessly, realizing what he was proposing. “Gifted students. Annette, possibly. I have heard Hubert is also quite clever.” 

“Hubert is somewhat… compromised,” Linhardt said uncertainly. “There is an issue of loyalty that lies outside of… academic interest.” 

“The two of us, then, to begin, strictly academic,” Lysithea whispered. She felt almost excited at the prospect. She’d spent years trying to forget the things that had happened to her. It hadn’t been helpful to remember them. She had limited time and so she’d kept her eyes fixed firmly forward. 

But now, if her theory about the Ashen Demon was correct, there was a clear logical reason to pursue the thread. 

“This process of implanting a Crest,” Linhardt spoke this time so softly she almost couldn’t hear it, “would it be painful? Hypothetically?” 

“Painful,” Lysithea whispered back. “Usually fatal. Bloody. Hypothetically.”

“I never could stand the sight of blood,” he murmured back. 

They lay there for a few moments in silence. Wasted time, she thought. Her need to cower was gone, replaced by impatience. 

When would the danger pass so she could get out of this wretched bush and get to work? Real work, this time, work to finally understand why the terrible things that had happened to her had ever had to happen. 

The branches beside her shifted slightly and she flinched back before she saw the tips of a few outstretched fingers poking through the brambles. Lysithea almost snorted, snapped at him, and withdrew. But, what harm could it really do? There was nothing better to pass the time. 

She laid her own hand, grubby and sticky with dried blood, against his. 

They lay there like that another half hour before they heard the shouts of Alois and Catherine sweeping the woods and searching for the remaining students. 

The Ashen Demon apparently had no interest outside of Lady Rhea and once the archbishop had been evacuated, he had vanished. A few of the Bergliez soldiers at the southern perimeter had turned up dead and apparently the monastery librarian was still missing after he’d fled during the panic, but no students had been seriously injured. 

Why come, then, Lysithea thought as she and her exhausted housemates tramped back up the steep road to the monastery. 

Why bother sending an agent to show up to a mock battle when his intended target was sure to escape? To sow further dissent in the church? To draw attention again to Rhea’s security while other operations were carried out? It had to mean something. 

Ghosts like that were never so wasteful. What her childhood nightmares did possess, however, she knew she lacked. Patience. They were always so very patient. As though they had all the time in the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lysithea is so fun to write because she has the perfect combo of smarts, a huge chip on her shoulder, and no idea how to deal with her feelings. Speaking of low emotional intelligence, Felix is up next as he continues his quest to return Bernadetta's notorious bag. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments! In exchange for these wonderful comments, a cat will be dispatched to bring you an arcane crystal, posthaste.


	9. Ice in the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix goes to Remire Village. He still doesn't return Bernadetta's bag.

“You realize I can still see your legs,” Felix said, staring at the quivering pair of feet clearly visible from behind the chestnut mare standing placidly in her stall. 

“Oh no,” a girl’s voice said in a shaking whisper, “stupid Bernie, now he’s got you cornered. Look, I’m sorry, okay! I surrender!” 

“Could you just come out of there for a second so I can give you the bag and then be done with it?” Felix sighed with exasperation. He’d had the satchel sitting in his room for months now. Not to mention the fact that he still hadn’t figured out the trick to that disarming twist she’d used on him the first time he’d meant to return it. 

Bernadetta, it turned out, was a difficult person to find. She spent almost all of her time in her room and crept out only occasionally for classes and meals. Felix, of course, could have easily just left the satchel at her doorstep and been done with the whole thing, but then he would never figure out exactly how she had managed to break his grip. 

The weather had turned cold again after a short burst of fall color, and the day was grey and wet. Chill rain drizzled down over the stables that was sure to turn to ice by the night. He’d heard it would be a bad winter for illness; apparently the village of Remire had already come down with something serious enough that even the overstretched Knights of Seiros had sent a physician. 

Felix grew tired of standing out in the damp and so he resigned himself to attempting force again, although this time with the added risk of a large skittish animal between them. He opened the stall, stepping carefully around the mare who only snorted faintly at his presence and investigated his hands for treats. 

“Look, I’ve told you already I’m not going to kill you,” Felix said firmly, peering around to finally make eye contact with Bernadetta who was pressed into the back corner of the stall. “Why are you still so afraid of me?” 

Bernadetta looked down at her feet, but her eyes kept flicking back up, monitoring him in case he lunged forward. She wasn’t exactly small and weak, although she held herself like a cowering rabbit in a snare. Honestly, he was only an inch or so taller than her and she clearly had the power and speed to hold her own in a fight. 

“Because- because, ah, your face,” she finally admitted, squeezing her eyes shut as though bracing for a smack, “you look like you could just… just snap at any moment. Like you’re so angry all of the time.” 

Felix felt his brows draw together at that, a snarl already forming at his lip. But, that was exactly what she’d said he’d be like. He did his best to smooth it down. 

“Well, I’m not angry,” he finally snapped, “I don’t let myself lose control like that. I’m just honest and people don’t like hearing the truth when it isn’t to their credit.” 

“Really?” Bernadetta said doubtfully, her eyes fixed on his face. He was frowning again, somehow. Annoying. “Because you… you even yell at your friends. And if I’m not even your friend, who knows what you’ll do to me? Throw me over the walls? Run me through at practice?” 

Felix felt her words as sharply as if she had slapped him. He did not yell at his friends. He might sometimes be sharp with Sylvain when Sylvain was acting foolish. And yes, he sometimes had to be blunt with Ingrid, caught up in her naive idealism. And with Dimitri, well, with Dimitri it was warranted. Someone had to remind the boar that he hadn’t fooled them all. 

But to imagine that Bernadetta though he might snap and go savage at a moment’s notice? That couldn’t be further from the truth. 

He trained constantly, worked constantly, not just for brute strength, but for survival. He did not let emotions or attachment or delusional ideology cloud him for a second. He had always been the one, sometimes the only one, who was in control of his life. 

If anyone was about to snap here, it was probably Bernadetta, wound tight as a spring and ready to bolt for the door as soon as he stepped aside to let her. 

“Well, you’re wrong,” Felix forced himself to say without a hint of passion. “I’m not an animal. Show me that disarming move again and then you’re free to go.” 

“I- I guess I can try,” Bernadetta said hesitantly. Felix watched her eyes dart over his shoulder. She was almost certainly going to try to act conciliatory until she had an opportunity to run. Again. “I don’t think I even know how I did it, I just panicked. I thought I was finished so I let my instincts take over, and then it just happened.”

Felix exhaled sharply through his nose. Maybe he ought to try reaching for her again and pay more attention to her movement. 

Before he could lunge, however, he caught the faint sound of another stall door swinging open at the far end of the stable. Felix paused, uncertain who might be riding on a miserable day like this one. Bernadetta had gone silent as well, he noted. She really did have sharp senses, and her reflexes were well-trained. 

Slowly, Felix leaned back and poked his head out of the stall to see who else was in the stables. If it was Ingrid, he ought to remind her that catching her death in the cold rain wouldn’t help anyone. It was like she wanted to get hurt, earn herself a glorious death, just like… 

A stall at the end of the stable was open and a man led out one of the larger half-drafts, the powerfully built horses used to armed combat. Felix squinted through the grey curtains of rain. He didn’t recognize this man as any of the monks or knights of the monastery and he was certainly too old to be a student. 

He had light sandy hair and a scarred face, thin and sunken around his eyes and cheeks. His clothes looked cobbled together from the uniforms of the guards and some of the training armor. 

Felix’s hand strayed to the sword at his belt. He knew who it must be. Captain Jeralt, the old madman the church had taken in as a charity case earlier that year. He was the one who had supposedly saved the house leaders from bandits, the one who’d they had brought in raving about his son. Disgust boiled in Felix’s stomach. The man was dangerous, too shattered by the loss of his kid to be useful anymore. 

A person like that, a person who couldn’t find any reason to go on after they’d lost everything… Felix had little sympathy for his madness. 

His own father had been worse. Sometimes he actually wished that Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius had gone mad. At least then, it wouldn’t have been so abundantly clear that he was happy to have lost his son. That he was overjoyed Glenn was dead so Dimitri could live, that he preferred it that way. 

That he would make the trade again, if he could. 

“What is he doing?” Bernadetta’s tiny whisper came from beside him and Felix wrenched himself out of the spiral of his thoughts. “He’s not supposed to be doing this, right? Why would he want to leave?” 

Jeralt had mounted the horse and spurred it hard out of the stable grounds, mud splashing as he went. 

Felix rolled his eyes silently. Bernadetta's perspective had clearly warped the issue at stake. Of course the madman wanted to leave. He was delusional, apparently still believing that his son was alive out there and waiting for him. 

“He’s probably been trying to escape for a while,” Felix whispered back. “We shouldn’t allow him to get far. He’s probably dangerous.” 

“I can tell Edelgard, I guess,” Bernadetta said uncertainly, “but there’s hardly any knights left who could go search for him. Seteth has barely been teaching us; he’s so preoccupied with the threat against the Archbishop.” 

“We can take care of it ourselves,” Felix said, “or I can if you would prefer to stay. He’s an old man, weak from his injuries. It shouldn’t be difficult to track him down.” 

“Felix!” Bernadetta chirped in alarm as he pushed out of the stall and drew the hood of his cloak up over his head, squinting in the direction of Jeralt before setting off to grab a horse of his own to follow. “Wait! You aren’t going alone, are you? You’re not even going to tell Prince Dimitri?” 

“He’ll only make this worse,” Felix said, letting Bernadetta scamper and slip alongside of him as he splashed through the mud. “The old fool went to look for his son. The Boar Prince will probably believe whatever drivel he’s spouting.” 

“But- oh no, but-” Bernadetta stammered, seemingly trying to force herself and prevent herself from saying something at the same time. “Interfering with a family matter can be… it’s not safe. And if he gets angry then he’ll come after you. And if he comes after you, he’ll think I was your accomplice!” 

As her voice rose, Felix noted the way one of her hands had begun to rub instinctively at her wrist, like she was soothing the burn of a rope. He looked away, instead occupying himself with finding the right tack and saddle for a horse. 

“We’re wasting time,” Felix said, “I’ll lose him in the rain if I don’t go now. Either follow me or don’t. Tell Edelgard if you want. I don’t care.” 

As he rode away into the bleak winter rain, she was still standing at the stable, shivering and splattered in mud. 

It didn’t take long to pick up Jeralt’s trail. The gatekeeper had reported him leaving through the market gate. 

He spotted Claude sheltering from the rain in the blacksmith’s stall, his ever watchful eyes following Felix as he rode past. The heir of the Leicester Alliance was a bizarre sort of person. Felix had caught him crawling out of a sewer grate last week, cradling a carefully wrapped encyclopedia of Fódlan’s insects like it was his greatest treasure. Felix was fairly certain he might be madder than Dimitri after that. 

Once he left the walls of the Garreg Mach, his progress slowed somewhat. The muddy roads let him see the recent hoofprints well, but he had to stop several times at crossroads or bridges to make sure he was still going the right way. The rain had lessened from a steady downpour to an infrequent splatter which made the dirt country paths slightly more passable. 

By late afternoon, however, Jeralt’s destination was obvious enough he hardly needed to check anymore. Remire village. Felix recalled that Jeralt had apparently been working as a mercenary not far from the village in the years before he’d lost it. Perhaps the rumors of the plague had reached him in captivity as well. If he still hoped in his delusional heart to see his son again, well, maybe he thought the outbreak and his own boy’s disappearance were related. 

Felix spurred his horse onward and down into a gentle valley. He could see the smoke of the village despite the dense forest that surrounded it. In fact, he could see quite a lot of smoke. A black column of smoke poured up from amid the trees despite the persistent drip of the freezing rain. 

For the first time, Felix began to regret not bringing anyone with him. 

He tied up the horse at a pasture gate far from the main village and walked the rest of the way as quietly as he could. Even at a distance, he could hear the sounds of crisis echoing through the otherwise silent woods around him. Screaming. The smell of smoke. The smell of something… almost savory. 

When he reached the village gates, he could see that the whole town was smoldering. 

Buildings were burning, the damp thatch roofs filling them with smoke rather than letting the fire roar up into the sky. People were dragging themselves from the wreckage of their homes, faces black with soot, arms raw with red burns. Some lay motionless on the ground, the flames slowly catching at their hair and clothing. The smell was… 

Felix felt himself gag, nearly having to lean against a tree for support. He couldn’t let it get to him. He should go help, stay calm, get people out. If Jeralt was responsible, Felix would cut him down. 

But the fire. He’d been told, of course, about the fire before. The Duscur rebels had to burn the carriages, cut off an easy route of escape, and so the bodies had been… so they’d never actually let him see what was left when…

He felt his stomach heave and before he could stop it, he was on his knees, spitting acidic bile up into the grass. His face burned as he pushed himself back upright, dragging a hand across his mouth. This was foolish, irrational, unhelpful. He had to focus on Jeralt. 

This time as he scanned the crowd, he made out the shape of a man on horseback through the smoke. He was fighting someone, Felix realized. Jeralt’s horse reared back as a shape struck out towards him with what looked like a farmer’s sickle. Felix drew his sword, about to run and help the villagers drive out their attacker. 

Before he moved, however, his eyes went unbidden back to the burning house near the gates. There was a man, dressed like a craftsman of some sort, kneeling over the burned corpse. And he was… he was tearing at it with his hands. A woman lurched past him, her eyes glazed and vacant, strange dark veins mottling her face. She was holding a knife and her arm was red up to the elbow in blood. 

Standing at the edge of the village and watching the slaughter, Felix felt frozen. He had no idea what he ought to be doing here. Fight with Jeralt or fight against Jeralt? Save the villagers or strike them down? It was so unthinkable, impossible, what was happening, how could he know what to do? 

A scream cut through the chaos of clashing metal and crying voices. Felix followed the sound to see a man dragging himself towards a fenced-in garden, behind him another villager with a raised hatchet. That, he thought, he could do something about that. 

He ran through the burning village green, feeling the heat blistering his legs when he waded through the smoldering ruins. The villager with the hatchet never turned, focused solely on his target. Felix ran him through the chest with the blade. The man twitched a few times, an odd burbling giggle still issuing from his mouth before he went still. 

“Th-thank you,” the man on the ground spluttered to Felix before he managed to stumble back upright and over the fence into the relative safety of the garden. 

Up ahead of him, Felix heard the shriek of a horse in agonizing pain. Jeralt was still fighting. Felix took a deep breath, and ran back into the thick smoke towards the sound. 

The horse was on the ground now, groaning and snorting with a few arrows sunk deep into its chest. Jeralt had rolled away, it seemed, and was now deflecting the blow of an unnaturally strong older woman using a large post hammer as a sort of maul. Felix caught Jeralt’s eyes as he forced her back with a cry of exertion. 

“What is-” Felix began to call out, but Jeralt turned away. 

“No time,” he rasped, his voice hoarse from the smoke, “I have to get to them fast, or I’ll lose my chance, I’m sorry.” 

He drove his spear through the old woman’s leg, glanced back at Felix, and then ran towards the center of the village, leaving Felix to fend for himself. 

His lungs burned as he dodged a crushing blow from the hammer. More shadows were appearing in the smoke around him, drawn to the screams of the dying horse apparently. There were too many of them. Jeralt had left him to fend them off while he went ahead. His head felt light. With each heavy breath, his lungs caught more smoke than air. 

He lowered into a crouch, sword ready at his side. Either be stronger, or die, he thought firmly. That’s all there is. You win and live or you die and it is over. 

An arrow whistled out of nowhere and caught him in the left shoulder. His arm went slack immediately and he felt his sword slipping from his grasp. So that was it, then. He would probably burn as well. 

He heard the sound of string snap, tensed his body for the arrow that would hit somewhere fatal this time. 

A breeze whistled over his shoulder and the arrow caught the woman with the hammer straight between the eyes. Felix turned sharply, not sure if it was all a mistake. 

Bernadetta was there, crouched behind a pile of scorched stone, trembling. Surviving. Fighting with him. 

“Petra, Ferdinand, get over the rubble and rescue the villagers on the west side,” a hard female voice called over the chaos, “Linhardt, stay back and tend to Felix, we’re going up the center.” 

Edelgard von Hresvelg emerged from the smoke. She held an already bloodied axe in her hand and her eyes were focused. And furious. Not like a raging boar, lashing out at whatever she could find. Like a raptor bird, her anger was cold, distant, and perfectly controlled. 

Felix dropped to his knees to grab for his sword with his right hand this time and he felt someone steady him as he stood. Bernadetta had her arm around him, half supporting him and half using him as some sort of human shield. 

“I can’t believe you made me do this!” she shrieked at him over the din. “I could be safe in my room right now, you- you-” 

She cut off abruptly, staring at him with horror in her eyes. 

“What?” he asked uncertainly, wondering if it was the blood on his face. 

“You’re, um, smiling at me,” she said. “I’ve never seen you… oh no, you’ve probably been hit on the head. This means I probably do need to get you to Linhardt right away.” 

“Jeralt,” Felix said, shaking off his strange pang of relief at Bernadetta’s presence as she began to drag him back. She really was quite strong when she wanted to be. “He went ahead, said something about getting to someone else in time.” 

“It’s alright, Edelgard will find him,” Bernadetta said, “and if not, well…” 

As she spoke, another shape shot out of the sky, swooping low over them and following Edelgard. Ingrid, Felix realized, riding at breakneck pace on her pegasus. He glanced back at Bernadetta who shrugged. 

Hoofbeats thundered in their direction and Felix managed to stumble back in time to see Leonie Pinelli jumping her horse over a smoldering log, calling at the top of her lungs for Jeralt. 

“I panicked okay!” Bernadetta said defensively, “I just- I sort of told everyone! Oh no, now you’re doing it again. Please, just stop smiling, forget I said anything, just look angry again!” 

They made it to Linhardt who was looking as grim and uncomfortable as he ever did in a real battle. He carefully extracted the arrow from Felix’s arm and closed the wound before more blood could pour out. 

As Felix flexed his hand and readied himself to return to the fray, a low roll of thunder echoed across the village battlefield and the rain returned in earnest. The remaining flames hissed and sputtered. 

When the smoke finally began to clear, Felix made out a few figures up on a low hill near the village’s northern edge. Edelgard’s silver hair cut through the gloom as she raised her axe and the ragged shadow of Jeralt was beside her, facing someone. 

Facing the missing librarian? 

But before either of them could strike him, Felix saw his distant form flicker, and twist. His head grew long, oddly misshapen, and his skin tone faded to a sallow waxy sheen. One of his eyes looked wrong, even at a distance, black and wide and shiny like an insect. 

As his body changed, a wave of crackling indigo energy exploded out around him, pushing Edelgard back and sending Jeralt to his knees. 

There was an enormous crack as the sky split open. The air smelled of ozone and Felix felt his eyes go momentarily blind as a bolt of lightning forked across his vision. There was a sound like a bomb, he felt flecks of wood slice across his cheek, and his ears were filled with nothing but a dull ringing sound. 

By the time he had blinked away the blinding remnants of the lightning strike, the librarian was gone. The fragments of a tree were scattered across the village and the ground around it was burned black. Through the ringing, Felix could hear the muffled sound of Leonie yelling something as she held Jeralt in her arms. Edelgard was pressing a hand to her ear as she slowly stood. 

But the fight was over. Felix turned around, taking in the destruction. Half of the village was dead, either cooked alive in their homes or cut down before they could slaughter each other. 

He saw Ingrid holding an injured old man to her chest as she landed from flight. Caspar von Bergliez had a kid in his arms, although the child appeared to be panicked rather than injured. Dorothea Arnault was organizing a stock of medicines from her classmates and passing them out where they were needed. And Ashe. Felix hadn’t spoken to Ashe in a while, but he was straining to shift a collapsed wooden door off of a young woman struggling out from beneath. 

Hoofbeats clattered from behind him and Felix turned to see that even more students were arriving who had straggled behind their faster peers. Claude von Reigan had turned up, although it was difficult to tell if he was late or had just been biding his time. Sylvain was right behind him, helping Mercedes off of his horse where they had apparently ridden together. Mercedes was rushing to help with the wounded at once, and Sylvain strangely went running to help Dorothea. 

And then, of course, him. 

Dimitri was out of his saddle in seconds, running forward towards where Edelgard was now regrouping at the center. The boar was uncaged. 

Felix followed him. 

“Where are they, the ones who did this, I’ll tear them to-” Dimitri spoke like he was drowning, the pacing of his words uncanny and wrong. Felix saw from his face where his mind was. He wasn’t really in the village anymore. He was there, in Duscur, again. 

“The villagers who had succumbed to the disease are already slain,” Edelgard said. “Their leader called himself Solon. Initially he appeared to be Tomas, the librarian, but he was somehow able to alter his form. He escaped in the chaos.” 

“Then we… we find him, all of them, whoever could do something like this,” Dimitri growled. His hand was shaking on his spear. One day, Felix knew he would snap. The boar would run unchecked. 

“Calm yourself,” Edelgard said harshly. Dimitri’s eyes narrowed and for a moment Felix readied himself to pull the boar back. But then his grip loosened slightly on the spear and he seemed to wrestle himself back into what passed as control. “If you are here to help, start with talking to Captain Jeralt. He seemed to know something about Solon, or suspect it at least. I have my classmates to attend to now.” 

Dimitri nodded and glanced to where Leonie and Claude were now helping Jeralt limp down from the hill. Felix stepped up next to him before he moved and gave the prince a silent look. 

“I’d rather you didn’t start,” Dimitri said darkly. “You, of all people, ought to understand.” 

Felix shook his head. 

“I am nothing like you, boar,” he said, trying to put as much venom into each word as he could. 

Felix turned his back on Dimitri and ran to follow Edelgard. He caught up with her as she was heading towards the gates where Hubert was apparently organizing some sort of search team to check the surrounding woods.

“Yes?” she turned as she heard him following. Her face was the same look of neutral focus. Perfectly controlled, even now. “Can you keep it quick? We need to sweep the woods for Solon before he has time to get far.” 

“The Prince, Dimitri,” Felix said, almost not believing what he was about to say, “he’s losing his mind. I’d rather fight under the command of someone who knows what they are doing.” 

Edelgard paused her quick strides and turned to face him. 

“You’d prefer to serve the Adrestian Empire, then?” she asked, her tone betraying nothing. 

“I’d prefer to fight for someone who values their own life,” Felix replied, “not just destroying their enemy.” 

“Then perhaps,” Edelgard said and her mouth contracted just slightly into a grimace, “you ought to speak with Claude.” 

“I… what?” 

“Destroying the enemy is the only way to truly win victory,” Edelgard continued. “I need soldiers who understand that sacrifice is often necessary.” 

“Sacrifice?” Felix felt his breath catch in his throat. This was not how he’d imagined the Imperial Princess, usually so reserved and rational. He gestured wildly behind him. “Where is the sacrifice here? This should never have happened, this is madness!” 

“Madness is what we call it when we fail to understand our enemy’s motivation,” Edelgard replied. “I hope you will remember that eventually.” 

She turned away and walked towards the gates, head high and back straight. She walked without looking down, stepping over the charcoal remains of villagers as she went. 

Felix watched her leave. 

Then he turned to the remains of a stone wall and smashed his fist into it. Blood dripped down his knuckles. He put them to his mouth, sucking at the spot where he’d torn open the skin. He tasted iron and smoke. Why had he done that? Perhaps one day he would understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felix is so stupid I love him. The great thing about essentially rewriting an entire game is how many times I have to try to gracefully articulate fight scenes ahhhhh. Next up, Leonie takes center stage as we finally get some scoop on Jeralt. Also, there is a ball! 
> 
> Commenters will receive a legendary Sword of Zoltan, forged by the master smith, coveted by all sword nerds.


	10. The Effect of Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonie attends a ball, swears a vow, and loses a mentor.

She would always remember the first time she saw him. He wasn’t handsome, not like some hero from a tale or prince from a ballad. Even then, his face had been scarred and weathered from years of battle. His hair had always looked scruffy, the sides a little overgrown between shaves and the front uneven. And he was rude. Or rather, he wasn’t the type for words and feelings when he could use his fists instead. 

At a glance you would know him as a man who appreciated a bit of hard living, the sort of man that made a small village nervous when he rode into town, even if he was there to save them. But to Leonie? To Leonie, he had been everything she’d ever wanted to be. 

Her mother had always scolded her for coming home dirty. Her father had lamented the state of her hair when she kept chopping it short and shorter. The girls her age had mocked her for the scrapes on her knees and the boys had their fun tormenting her until she took swings at them. 

She had always felt useful to her village, but she had never felt at home. Captain Jeralt changed all of that. Not that he’d made her understand her place or made her somehow beloved to her family and her village. Simply, he’d shown her that her home might be somewhere else. 

Which was why she couldn’t stand seeing him so diminished. 

It wasn’t like she was shallow or anything. He looked thin and tired, but he’d never exactly been much for appearances. No, it was his mannerisms more than anything. His hunched shoulders, his refusal to meet her eyes, his conciliatory shaking of the head. 

He looked defeated. And Captain Jeralt had never looked defeated. 

At least the Archbishop had finally allowed her to visit him. After she’d carried him all the way back from Remire village, Lady Rhea must have realized that the proverbial ship had sailed. 

Unfortunately, she could only talk to him under supervision and that supervision happened to be… chatty.

“So anyways, then I said, ‘chest plate? I’d rather have the cheese plate!’” Alois roared with laughter and wiped his eyes as he finished yet another long and nonsensical story. Leonie gritted her teeth. Did the man not realize that Captain Jeralt wasn’t laughing? 

Well, he wasn’t laughing and he had hardly put two words together for the last hour. 

“I asked Seteth again if he might start allowing you to train with the knights and students,” Leonie said, turning to Jeralt and ignoring Alois who was still recovering from his own sense of humor. “You could get your strength back that way.” 

Jeralt shook his head. He sat at the window, his eyes fixed on the monastery below like he scarcely remembered she was there. 

“Won’t let me out,” he rasped after a moment. “Rhea’s afraid.” 

“She is afraid because they think you’re still… that you’re unwell,” Leonie said, pressing him now that she at least had his attention. “But you could prove to them you’re fine! Train me again, at least, to show them.” 

“No,” Jeralt said, one shaky hand reaching up to rub the rough beard at his chin. “No, she knows the truth. Knows I’m not crazy.” 

“Right!” Leonie agreed fiercely. “Everyone saw what Tomas, er, Solon did in Remire. No one can dispute that dark mages actually are operating in the area, just like you said!” 

“Leonie, uh, I recall Seteth saying something about avoiding upsetting topics,” Alois reminded her with an apologetic clearing of his throat. Leonie sighed and ran a hand through her shortly cropped hair. What was she supposed to talk to him about then? His child was missing, he had the right to be upset.

He was upset, but he could at least look at her. She might not come close to Byleth in his mind, but she was his apprentice. The least he could do was explain. 

“Oh no, I have to get to class soon,” Leonie groaned as the distant chime of the cathedral’s bells echoed through the open window. “Sorry, captain. I’ll try to stay longer next time.” 

“I don’t need company,” Jeralt said, his forehead still pressed to the glass. 

“Oh,” Leonie replied dumbly. “I see, I just… well maybe I can bring you something to read.” 

“Don’t need a library book,” Jeralt said in the same dull tone. 

Alois had already stood and unlocked the door to allow Leonie out. He had one of those horribly expressive faces that always showed his feelings clearly. And right now, he pitied her. Leonie hated being pitied. 

She slung her rucksack over her shoulder and marched towards the door. She was already late if the bell had rung. Professor Manuela would probably assign her stable duty with Lorenz again as punishment. 

“Had a book I was already reading,” Jeralt’s voice came unexpectedly from behind her as Alois began to swing the door shut. “Wanted to finish that one, actually. It was still in my bag when they brought me in.” 

Leonie spun around and shouldered her way past Alois to poke her head back through the door. 

“I’ll get it for you, you can count on it,” she declared. “As quick as I can, sir.” 

Jeralt didn’t speak again. 

Alois locked the door behind them as they left and then he rubbed his temples. 

“I don’t like seeing the old rascal that way,” he said mournfully. “I understand, though. I have a daughter, actually, myself, the cutest little troublemaker you’ve ever seen!” 

“You’ve told me,” Leonie said sharply. “But you’re missing the point. He’s not telling us something. Or he can’t, not with _you_ there to report everything he says.” 

“Leonie, please, you know I am doing everything that I can to help the captain,” Alois objected. “But even people you look up to can sometimes be… well, sometimes it’s hard for all of us to tell who is on our side. When you’re upset, the people who are trying to help you the most can seem like your worst enemies.” 

Leonie shot him a look. Alois thought himself the master of the subtle comment. He was wrong. 

She hadn’t minded Alois at first. He was nice to the students and he was clearly good at his job. It had been reassuring to know Captain Jeralt had one loyal friend in the Knights of Seiros. 

But he treated her like a child, not an apprentice. Like she was some lost kid who thought Captain Jeralt was her father, not like a warrior who wanted to finish her training. She was the one who was actually trying to help Captain Jeralt get his son back, repaying her mentor rather than betraying him. 

Leonie took the stairs at a run to avoid more conversation with Alois and then pelted through the halls of the monastery to make it back to the Officers Academy. She really was quite late at this point. 

When she did skid to a halt, panting slightly, at the doors of the Golden Deer classroom, the only person inside was Claude. He sat tipped on the back two legs of a chair with a book in one hand, glancing up as Leonie made her breathless entrance. 

“Where is everyone?” she gasped. “Am I that late?” 

“More like a week early,” Claude said with a raised eyebrow. “It’s the ball tonight, remember? Professor Manuela gave us the day off to prepare.” 

“The ball? We’re missing lessons because of a ball?” Leonie scoffed and then flopped into one of the desks. “We already lost a day of training last week to Professor Manuela trying to teach us all dancing when everyone knew Dorothea was going to win!” 

“Dancing is fun,” Claude shrugged, “and even if we didn’t win, Raphael had a great time. Just be grateful I didn’t recommend you, Leonie. You could definitely use a bit of fun right now.”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Leonie shot back. 

Claude looked back at her mildly, unphased as always. His hooded eyes were so watchful, it was a little unnerving. 

“You do great work for Captain Jeralt,” he shrugged. “Maybe you can take one day of the year to do something for yourself.” 

Leonie bit her lip. Her village had dances, usually on the Saint’s Days or at the harvest. She was pretty quick on her feet but… But dancing was for other people. She’d look ridiculous. Too scruffy and too blunt and too forceful. Captain Jeralt had certainly never danced at a ball. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready, then?” Leonie quickly changed the subject. “Don’t you have some girl you’re hoping to impress?” 

“Can’t improve on what’s already perfect,” Claude winked. “I’m ready as I’ll ever be.”

Leonie sighed. A typical Claude answer. All style, no indication of what he was actually thinking or feeling. 

By evening, the imminent ball was far more apparent. Students were gathering in each other’s rooms to paint makeup on their faces or braid hair. People raided the greenhouse for last minute bouquets and accessories. 

Leonie consented to wash her face and change into her cleanest uniform, but she nearly had to barricade the door to stop Hilda getting in and draping her in jewelry. 

The reception hall had been cleared of tables and benches for the dancing while the gardens outside were hung with lights and filled with little tables of food and drink. Leonie took a glass of something, mostly so she’d have something to do with her hands, and then stood in the corner to observe the dancing. 

From a technical perspective, it was actually sort of interesting. The footwork involved in moving around the dancefloor without stepping on your partner's toes or bumping into any other couples must be quite challenging. 

Leonie watched Petra sweeping Ignatz around the floor. His footwork was clumsy, but his cheeks were pink and his eyes brighter than she’d ever seen them. 

Lorenz was trying and failing to get through the cluster of boys surrounding Dorothea while Hilda let Ferdinand exuberantly whirl her around the dancefloor with a squeal of laughter. 

Lysithea, who Leonie distinctly remembered pronouncing the ball as a waste of time, was sharing some of the canapes with Linhardt and actually smiling. 

Even Bernadetta, that girl who hardly left her room, had showed up, although she was attempting to hide behind a pillar she clearly didn’t realize that Felix was leaning against the other side of. 

Everyone had made friends, Leonie realized. All of the students, despite the turbulent year, had somehow found the time to befriend each other. 

And she hadn’t. No, she had been busy. She’d had Captain Jeralt to worry about, not some ridiculous student party. 

When, she wondered, had she stopped thinking of herself as one of the students? 

Leonie set her glass down on a table, wincing slightly as it clinked musically against the side of a plate. She’d had enough of the ball. But the gardens outside were sure to be full of couples and it was far too early for bed at this point. Fresh air, then, she decided. She’d walk the bridge to the cathedral, and clear her head. 

The air outside was bitter cold and she wrapped her arms around herself as the thin dress uniform did little to warm her. The wind whipped at her skirt as she made her way over the bridge. The night was clear, a few stars visible in the evening sky. 

Once she’d reached the other side of the bridge, she kept walking, eager to move to keep the cold from getting to her. The massive looming shadow of the cathedral provided some break from the wind, but she was still restless. 

At the end of the balcony, Leonie saw that the Goddess Tower was open. There was, she recalled, supposed to be some local legend about the place. A promise made there on the night of the ball was sure to be kept. Probably one of the monks had intentionally forgotten to lock it up to allow any students brave enough to face the cold to try their luck. 

It was still early, Leonie thought, glancing at the tower. Probably no one would show up there until after the dancing was over. She might as well check it out while she could. Maybe she could make a promise to herself, if the rules even worked that way. 

The interior of the tower was dark, covered in vines that must bloom and cover the stone in flowers during the summer. From the windows, Leonie could see the entire monastery and the villages below it stretching out for miles. It was like being the Goddess herself, watching over the world from the heavens. 

“Ah, apologies! I didn’t realize the students would be here so early!” 

Leonie spun around at the sound of the voice. Standing in the doorway was the person she had least expected to see here. 

“Alois?” she gasped. “What are you-? Are you following me now?” 

“No, no, nothing of the sort!” he said with a flustered sigh. “I had no idea you’d be here, actually. Usually the students come here to make their vows once they’ve had a chance to try out dancing with each other first!” 

“Oh, well, um, I’m not here to do anything,” Leonie stammered, “I was just curious and the ball was getting boring.” 

Alois stepped aside from the doorway and into the tower, peering out one of the windows himself. 

“To tell you the truth, I’m here alone as well,” he said. “I’m technically on guard duty tonight, to ensure the Archbishop is secure. But, in my younger years, my wife and I once snuck out to make a vow this very night in the Goddess tower.” 

He was talking about his wife again. He would probably talk until morning if she let him. 

“Sounds lovely,” Leonie said. “I’ll give you some space then.” 

“Don’t you want to know what our vow was?” Alois asked, as though genuinely shocked that Leonie might not want to hear the tale. 

“Fine,” Leonie sighed, resigning herself. “What was the vow?” 

“She vowed to love me as long as I could make her laugh,” Alois sighed. “Isn’t that just the most magical thing you’ve ever heard? And it worked, too! That vow has never been broken.” 

“As long as you make her laugh?” Leonie asked. “Isn’t that a bit… conditional? What if you run out of jokes?” 

“Then the Goddess will make sure I think of some new ones. I’ve always been blessed by her,” Alois smiled, leaning back against the wall now to face Leonie. “I’ve told you before, I’m sure, about how I came to serve as Captain Jeralt’s squire?” 

“You looked just like his former squire, the one that died, and so he picked you,” Leonie nodded. 

“My handsome face must be her blessing as well, then. He’s always been an odd one, Jeralt,” Alois chuckled. “But I’ve never broken the vow I made to him either, even if it wasn’t blessed by the Goddess.” 

“What was that vow?” Leonie asked skeptically. Surely if he’d sworn to obey Captain Jeralt, he’d broken that by keeping him locked up for the church. 

“I vowed to protect his legacy,” Alois said, “and to, um, pick up his drinking tabs.” 

“His legacy?” Leonie scoffed. “If you vowed to protect his legacy, shouldn’t you be out looking for his child, then?” 

Alois looked at her and a crease appeared between his brows. He looked unusually somber all of a sudden. 

“I think I’m where I need to be,” he said. 

They stood there in silence for a moment. The wind whistled around the tower and Leonie could hear the distant sounds of music echoing from below. 

“I should get back to the ball,” Leonie said finally. Alois nodded. 

“Enjoy it,” he said, enthusiasm back with a vengeance. “You’re only young once! Although if you had seen my wife, you’d understand that some things only improve with age!” 

“Ugh, goodnight Alois,” Leonie muttered, hurrying out of the tower. 

The ball was still in full swing back in the reception hall although a few servants had cleared the dancefloor after a disastrous waltz by Annette and Caspar had sent a tray of drinks smashing into the center of it. Leonie nodded at a few of her classmates as she passed through. 

Dorothea had finally extricated herself from the crowd of suitors and Raphael had apparently challenged her to a rematch of the White Heron Cup.  Mercedes had apparently twisted an ankle and Lorenz had volunteered to help her hop back to her room.  Marianne was sitting beside the band, her hands clasped in front of her, but one foot tapping to the music. 

As for the house leaders, Edelgard was speaking quietly with Ashe at the side of the room while Dimitri was nowhere to be seen anymore. 

Leonie spotted Claude in the gardens, talking with another student Leonie had never seen before. He was odd looking, his smile a little too sharp to be pleasant, and he wore shimmering lavender powder on his eyelids. 

“Having any fun yet, Leonie?” Claude called out as she passed. His strange companion tilted his head to the side and gave her an appraising look. 

“Plenty,” Leonie said, trying to sound cheerful. 

Leonie returned to her room and got ready for an early bedtime. She’d probably have the training grounds to herself if she woke up early. Still, when she blew out her candle, she had to put a pillow over her head to sleep. Too many people outside, still laughing, still having fun. 

When next morning’s classes began, everyone came in groggy, particularly Professor Manuela who didn’t seem to realize that she’d only managed to put one earring in. 

Even Claude was yawning over his books as Manuela set them to researching Almyran wyvern breeding techniques while she draped a scarf over her eyes and took small sips of water from a canteen. Leonie, on the other hand, was full of energy. She’d already been awake for hours, practicing at the archery range and then trying her skills out on a few partridges in the woods. 

“Alright, someone summarize the wyvern’s four basic wing shapes,” Manuela finally broke the drowsy silence, “quietly, if you please.” 

Lysithea’s hand shot up, naturally, but before Manuela could call on her, someone had barged through the door, his voice booming through the room.

“Professor Manuela, sorry to interrupt!” Alois announced. Manuela flinched and covered her ears at the sound. “I’ve just received a report that some of the students apparently went out to camp last night in the Sealed Forest. We’ve heard reports of demonic beasts at the old chapel there and I fear someone might be injured. I’m afraid we can’t spare anyone else from protecting the monastery after the incident at Gronder, could I borrow you for a few hours?” 

“We could all go,” Claude said, immediately perking up from his readings. “We haven’t had much in the way of hands-on experience this month and you sound like you could use a few extra hands!” 

Alois hesitated. 

“Well, I suppose you have all fought a few beasts before,” Manuela said, “and we’d both be there to supervise, I don’t see why not. Technically, we wouldn’t even be leaving monastery grounds.” 

“If you think it best, professor,” Alois said uncertainly. “In any case, we ought to hurry.” 

The Sealed Forest was not often used by the students of Garreg Mach. Leonie rarely even used it for hunting or gathering wood. The place was full of old ruins, chapels and statues and courtyards not used by the church in generations. The woods had grown up around them apparently, and the trees were young and thick with brush. 

Leonie was on horseback as Alois led them through the trees and she kept having to duck out of the way of branches. The weather was still cold and damp, but at least she was better prepared for it in her armor. 

There was something creepy about the Sealed Forest. Or maybe melancholy was a better word. It reminded her of how old Garreg Mach actually was. 

As they approached the chapel, Leonie heard the sounds of heavy footfalls on the forest floor. Distantly, she made out the sounds of someone yelling with alarm, and then a moment after, a low growl. Alois glanced at the students, swinging his axe down from his shoulder. 

“Sounds like the reports were correct,” Claude said. “Guess we ought to hurry.” 

When they reached the edge of the trees, a less heavily wooded area opened up around them and Leonie could make out the ruins of the chapel Alois had mentioned. 

At a glance, she counted four beasts, probably more than Alois or Professor Manuala had been expecting. Sheltering amid the ruins were the cowering shapes of a few students, some climbing trees to get clear or looking for places to run. One of them Leonie recognized as Monica, that red haired girl from the Black Eagle house who had also been abducted by Jeritza. 

But, they had arrived in time, just barely. If Jeralt were there, he’d find a way to save all the students, and so that’s what she had to do as well. 

“We’ll have to split up to make sure we get to everyone in time,” Manuela commanded, her voice taking on the firmness she somehow always found on the battlefield. “Hilda and Lorenz, take the right path. Leonie, Alois, and Raphael, keep that one in the center occupied. The rest of us will cut around past the fortification and join you.” 

Leonie nodded, spurring her horse forward towards the beast at the center. These things were tough, but not impossible to kill. She’d hunted deer for her village before, in theory it was just the same. It required patience, focus, and willingness to pull back sometimes. 

Raphael surrounded the best with a battalion of brawlers first, confusing the wild creature as they swarmed around it. It snapped uselessly in her direction, its long, greyish snout rising to bare a mouthful of long teeth. The skin of these things was armored with scaly plates and so she would have to be careful with her aim if she wanted to avoid getting an arm taken off. 

Leonie raised her spear and charged forward, the horse adding power to her stroke as she hit the beast directly under the chin. Black viscous blood splattered down onto her hand as she wrenched the spear free. The beast roared, pushing ropes of acidic saliva out of its mouth. Some of it splashed across her arm and she felt it burning and sizzling against her skin. 

She backed up, bringing her horse around and waiting for someone to distract the creature so she could find another place to strike. 

Alois struck it with a hard blow across the chest, cracking some of the scales, but not yet piercing deep past the hide. It caught him with the swipe of its claws, sending him staggering backwards, but he stayed standing. 

Leonie reached back for another strike with her spear, but the beast turned suddenly. Its tail slammed into her and she felt her shoulder hit the ground, hard, as she fell from the horse. She tasted blood as her teeth smashed into her tongue and her head spun for a moment. 

The beast was right above her now, its hot breath on her face as she shook her head and tried to find her balance again. 

“Not on my watch, beastie!” Alois’ booming voice came from somewhere above her and the beast turned away, right into a charge. Leonie scrambled back upright and swung herself back onto her horse with just one leg. Alois had its attention for now, but she could see he’d taken a swipe across the side that left a smear of blood on his white armor. 

Even Raphael’s strongest blows weren’t doing much to cut through the scales and so he had settled for serving as the distraction, darting around beneath its feet as the beast yowled and dug its claws into the earth. Another swing from Alois passed just shy of its throat as it reared back onto its hindlegs and… there. 

Leonie drew her arm back, clapped her heels to the horse, and flung a javelin with all of her strength. It sailed through the air before lodging in the creature’s exposed belly with a wet thump. The beast screamed, and then fell. 

“Nice work!” Alois shouted, brushing himself off after the swipe from the claws. “That was a Jeralt move if I’ve ever seen one!” 

He had saved her. And now he was complimenting her fighting. How could she convince him to stop trying so hard to be her friend? 

But before she had time to be irritated, the beast’s body had begun to twitch. No, it had begun to… shrivel? The flesh almost appeared to be boiling, tendrils of foamy black melting away into the ground. Leonie recoiled, backing her spooking horse a few paces away. 

There was something beneath the oily black remains of the beast. Alois knelt to examine it, pulling the sludge gingerly away. It was a human body. A young man, she realized, probably her age. His chest had split open, like he’d been cracked down the middle, and black fluid was still draining out. 

“We’ve got another incoming!” Raphael yelled from up ahead. “Movin’ pretty quick!” 

Alois dropped the body, his face frozen in an expression of horror, but he lifted the axe again. Leonie convinced her snorting horse to canter around the remains and towards the next beast bearing down on them. 

This one was already wounded, its humped back filled with arrows from Claude’s archers. It felt more like putting down a rabid stray than hunting a beast. Leonie caught it with a deep wound to the flank and then Alois put his axe straight through its forehead, cleaving the skull open and spraying him with more black slime. 

“What is that inside of those creatures?” Professor Manuela gasped as she finally ran panting up beside them. “Oh Goddess above, is that a student? Was that in its… stomach?” 

“Something tells me no,” Claude said grimly. He was examining the quickly decomposing remains of the beast they’d just killed. With a glove, he carefully reached into the remains of the student’s chest cavity and withdrew what appeared to be a small coal, glowing hot as though from the ashes of a fire. 

Hilda joined them from the right side at that point, miserably trying to comb some blood out of her hair. 

“Yuck,” she said when she saw Claude sifting through the remains. “I think we got all of them. Marianne is tending to one of the girls who was hurt. Everyone okay over here?” 

“I think so,” Leonie said shakily. “Not a scratch on me, at least.” 

“Well, it looks like we saved all the students,” Hilda said brightly. “So hooray for us?”

“I’m not sure we did,” Alois said, glancing back down at the remains of the beast. “I’ll need to report this to the Archbishop. Manuela, could you see that all the ones we rescued are alright? I want to be sure there isn’t anyone else hiding out in the chapel.” 

Manuela nodded, beckoning the rest of the Golden Deer into a group and assigning them to check the others for injuries and prepare them for travel. 

Leonie watched Alois walking up the steps to the chapel. He was limping slightly from the hit he’d taken, she noticed. She might not like the man much, but in combat he held his own. If she could learn to tolerate his joking, he might even be able to teach her something. 

A student emerged from where she’d been hiding just beyond the chapel wall. Monica, the one who’d been taken earlier. Her words echoed across the newly silent forest as she approached Alois. 

“Thank you for all your help, sir,” she said. Her voice was oddly playful for someone who’d nearly been killed. 

“Of course! We really did our _beast_ out there!” Alois laughed. “Get it?” 

“Got it,” Monica said, her smile widening. 

And then she pulled out a dagger. And plunged it into his back. 

Leonie felt like time had stopped. 

This could not happen. Not to Alois. Alois who was annoying and goofy and always trying to talk to her. Always trying to praise her and guide her and share his stories with her. Not Alois. It couldn’t be real. 

He was supposed to bother her and tell long rambling stories and not be stricken and bleeding and silent with a knife in his back. 

The dagger ripped back out, showering the ground in blood, and Alois fell forward. Monica wiped the blade on his white cloak. She turned, caught Leonie’s gaze, and shrugged. 

“Sorry, can’t stay to chat,” Monica said, “I just can’t stand to see a brilliant plan foiled.” 

And then she vanished. 

Leonie pushed herself off of the horse, stumbled, and ran to Alois. She could hear Professor Manuela screaming something at her as she ran, but she ignored it. Red stained his white cloak as she shifted it aside to see the damage. The wound was deep, probably driven into the kidneys and further. Gently, she turned him onto his side, one hand pressing into the wound in his back as blood rushed out over her fingers. 

“Sorry,” Alois whispered, “it looks like I’m going to have to leave you now.” 

“No,” Leonie said fiercely, “no, I can get you back to the monastery, Manuela will stop the bleeding long enough, you’ll be okay. I’m going to save you.” 

“Ah,” Alois breathed, his voice very faint. “Don’t make vows… you can’t keep.” 

“I have to keep it,” Leonie felt her eyes growing hot, felt tears dripping down her cheeks. “I have to. You’re blessed by the Goddess, remember?” 

“Tell my wife…” Alois said and then grimaced as his body shivered in her arms. “Tell her I’m sorry I can’t make her laugh anymore. She should… find someone else… I hear there are plenty of men out there… with a face like mine.” 

Leonie laughed, but it caught in her throat and became a sob. 

“Knew I’d make you laugh eventually,” Alois said, his eyes fluttering closed and his hands beginning to go slack where she gripped one of them. “You should… in Seteth’s office… his journal… that’s the book he wants you-” 

He took a deep breath and then went still in her arms. 

Soft rain began to fall onto the grass around her. 

Jeralt’s legacy, she thought as the drops washed the blood from his face. That is what he said he had sworn to protect. If he laid the burden down here, she would carry it. She would walk with the crushing, monstrous weight of Jeralt’s legacy on her shoulders and protect it. She would not fail again. 

She would swear that before the Goddess herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad times, but someone had to go, ya know? Did you enjoy the ball? Catch the subtle DLC cameo? Next time, a huge lore dump as Annette takes command and gets these idiots to all finally talk to each other. 
> 
> Comment and I will perform a dance for you so inspiring and energizing that you'll become twice as productive as normal.


	11. Where No One Dwells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annette organizes a meeting of the three houses. It goes just as well as one would expect.

“ _Living in a land that's dark and blinded by the frigid cold... Creeping through the loneliness for ages untold... In your heart you're desperate for the sweet embrace of light... Pushing through and crawling with all of your might... here! Creepy creepy creepity creep…_ ” 

“Um, Annie?” 

Annette dropped the watering can with an echoing clang of metal on stone. 

“Mercie! You can’t sneak up on me like that!” she yelped, simultaneously alarmed and relieved that it was Mercedes who had caught her. “Especially not when I’m… you know... gardening!” 

Mercedes gave a gentle peel of laughter and ran a hand over the recently watered flowers. 

“I really wasn’t trying to sneak at all,” she said gently, “I’m afraid when you get focused on your songs, Annie, not even a charging beast could interrupt you.” 

Annette picked up the watering can and began to refill it with a sigh. Her shoes were soaked now. 

“You know I actually was _trying_ to concentrate this time, Mercie. I even tried making the song about flowers!” Annette lamented. “But my mind always takes over and then I forget what my hands are doing and… disaster! Again!” 

“Oh, the song was about flowers?” Mercedes asked. “I thought it was about ghosts.” 

“Please just forget about it,” Annette begged, dumping the rest of the water out into the flowerbed and then squelching over to a bench to try to dry her shoes out. “So, uh, what is it you came here to talk about? Have you and Lorenz still been, you know, meeting up?” 

“Oh no, he’s rather dreadful, honestly,” Mercedes said, her voice airy and unbothered. “Everytime he does something remotely nice for me, he goes and ruins it with a comment about how it is his duty to support the common folk. I actually came to ask you about this.” 

Mercedes held up an envelope with her name written in Annette’s slanted script. 

“Oh, right! That’s tonight,” Annette realized, turning her shoes over and wiggling her feet up and down to try to dry her socks. “I had nearly forgotten about it, thanks!” 

“Yes, I understood that part, but… well, what exactly is a 'Synod' and why are you inviting us all to one?” Mercedes asked, her brows creasing. “It sounds like you sent an invite to almost everyone in the school!” 

“Yep, pretty much!” Annette said, testing the bottom of her shoes and feeling water still squeezing out. “I called it a Synod for fun, really, it’s just going to be a meeting. I figured that with everything weird going on, all the students ought to get together and talk about it. It started because Lysithea, that kid from the Golden Deer, well, she approached me about a research project she was doing on the Crestology of the Ashen Demon. And then there was that poor knight who died and it turning out that Monica was some kind of spy… The professors and the knights haven’t been able to explain anything and so I thought that more heads are usually better than one. And so, Synod!” 

“You don’t think we ought to invite Professor Hanneman, then?” Mercedes asked. “After all, he knows more about Crests than anyone, probably.” 

“Well, once we figure out what everyone knows, then I’ll talk to the professors,” Annette said, “I just thought that people might speak more freely if they weren’t worried about being wrong in front of the faculty. Or any of the… church people.” 

Namely, she though, one very specific 'church person' who wouldn’t show up even if she had invited him. 

“I think it’s a wonderful idea, Annie,” Mercedes said with a smile, balancing Annette with a hand on her arm as she started to pull her shoes back on. “Seeing all of our classmates together will be so much fun!” 

Annette looked at Mercedes smiling face and suddenly felt unsure. The idea had seemed so good when she’d sent the invitation earlier that week. Of course people from other houses probably knew things that could be helpful. And the situation was so serious, the problem so important to solve, of course everyone would want to come together to work on it.

She still had nightmares of that day in the Holy Mausoleum, that man with the still face throwing Dimitri to the floor like a broken doll. So it had seemed like the most logical plan, to bring everyone together and work as a team. 

Except that now it seemed like a terrible and stupid idea that everyone would either ignore or laugh at. 

It was just like the songs, Annette thought with exasperation. In her head, they were always so clear, so perfectly suited, so wonderful. But all it took was one person watching her sing and she would realize that the song was embarrassing, confusing, and incomprehensible to anyone but her. 

“I think I’m going to do some shopping in town since the weather has finally gotten nice again,” Mercedes asked, breaking Annette from her reverie. “Would you like to join? Or do you need time to get ready for your Synod?” 

“I will definitely join,” Annette said. “If I think about it more, I’m pretty sure I’m going to start screaming. Can we go to that tea parlor with the little custard pies?” 

“Of course!” Mercedes said, linking arms with Annette as they headed out into the blustery winds of early spring. “Nothing like a custard pie to stop you from screaming.” 

The shopping provided an adequate distraction for the afternoon, and by evening, Annette had almost swung back to believing she wasn’t an idiot until the time came for her to start setting up the library. 

Given that the librarian had turned out to be an evil warlock, she was pretty certain the space would be available, but then she realized that she would need to rearrange all the tables and she definitely hadn’t bought enough raspberry turnovers for everyone to have one if they all showed up. 

As she was frantically shoving benches out of the way to move the tables into a semblance of a circle, she heard the door swing open. 

“Not quite ready, sorry!” Annette called out, accidentally driving the edge of the table into her ribs as she attempted to push it. 

“Need a hand?” 

It was Caspar, already hurrying over to help her with the tables. Caspar was nice, she’d danced with him at the ball, but Linhardt had rather cruelly remarked that he was ‘the only person who could outmatch Annette in sheer chaos’ and so that still stung a bit. 

“Thanks, Caspar,” Annette sighed as he flung the tables together with reckless abandon. “Sorry about being so helpless, I should have gotten here sooner to set up.”

“No worries,” Caspar said with a grunt as he twirled a bench rather frighteningly over his head. “Next time, you’ll know better! Or you’ll know to call me and I’ll lift all the tables you want!” 

“I feel like such a…. Ugh,” Annette dropped heavily into a chair and put her head in her hands. “What was I thinking trying to organize something like this? I’m not a house leader! I’m not even reliable!”

“Hey, you made raspberry turnovers, though!” Caspar suggested, heaving the last bench into place and then clapping the dust from his hands. “That’s even better, in my book.” 

“I didn’t,” Annette sighed, “I bought them in town. I’m still banned from using the ovens, remember?” 

“They taste good, that’s what counts,” Caspar said through a thick mouthful, “oh, sorry, are we supposed to eat them yet?” 

“Eat them all if you want,” Annette said glumly. It would probably just be him and Mercedes and maybe Lysithea anyways. 

“Ah, fantastic,” Caspar said, “you know Annette, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. I never would have thought of doing something like this with everybody!” 

“I thought of it,” Annette said, “that doesn’t mean I thought it through.”

“Sometimes that’s all you need,” Caspar said with a shrug. “The first step to doing anything is to start!”

“Sorry, should we come in yet?” Annette looked up to see Claude poking his head around the door. “We’re here for whatever a ‘Synod’ is supposed to be.” 

Annette leapt to her feet. 

“Yes, come in!’ she said, “take a seat.” 

Claude opened the door and a huge group of people filed into the room. All of the Golden Deer had come, most of the Blue Lions with the notable exception of Felix, and the majority of the Black Eagles, but for the reclusive Bernadetta and Linhardt, who was probably expecting her to just fill him in when he woke up. 

They would need more chairs. And a lot more raspberry turnovers. 

Lysithea nodded to Annette as she took a seat beside Claude. Mercedes waved and mimed applause from across the room as she filed in.

Dimitri was there, looking strained and stiff. He sat on the opposite side of the room from Edelgard and silently stared at her. Honestly, Annette was surprised Edelgard had actually come. She’d heard the Imperial Princess was a bit prickly, or perhaps just arrogant. She tended to avoid any event where she couldn’t be named the indisputable leader. And of course, there was the matter Monica. 

No one made much conversation and the room was filled with the sound of shifting chairs and people squeezing extra seats around the table. When everyone had found a spot, the room was totally silent, but for the occasional creaking of wood and the clearing of throats.

They were waiting for her, Annette realized. 

“Hi everyone,” she said with a little wave, “um, thank you for coming. So, um, I just thought we should talk… right, about all the things that have been happening. I don’t really know much myself, but it seemed like other people have ideas. Anyways, anyone who wants to talk can talk. Also, there are turnovers.” 

The room lapsed back into silence after her introduction fizzled away. 

Lysithea cleared her throat. 

“I have been performing research ever since the disturbing incident at Gronder Field regarding the motivations of the man known as the Ashen Demon,” she announced. 

There were a few sheets of paper in front of her. She had prepared notes. Why hadn’t Annette thought to prepare notes?

“As you are all aware, he seems to demonstrate unnatural abilities such as extremely fast movements that I have theorized might be the result of his Crest, the Crest of Flames, which allows him to bear the Sword of the Creator. However, this Crest is thought to be extinct, making it impossible that he would inherit such an ability through natural descent.” 

“What other way could someone acquire a Crest?” Dorothea asked. “I’ve heard that commoners sometimes appear to manifest rare Crests, but that is usually due to the indiscretions of certain nobles up to a few generations back in their ancestry.” 

“Such behavior is highly frowned upon!” Lorenz immediately cut in. 

“I believe that Crest of the Ashen Demon is related to the arcane research that Solon, alias Tomas, sought to perform here,” Lysithea continued calmly. She was incredible, Annette thought, never getting flustered or off-topic.

Lysithea continued. “Working alongside my colleague from the Black Eagles, I have compiled evidence of an organization dedicated to unethical Crestologic research operating throughout Fódlan. We have all seen with our own eyes that Solon was capable of disguising himself through magical means. This implies that any number of organizations, the Western Church provides but one example, might be infiltrated by these dark mages. Our working theory is that they have found a way to imbue the Ashen Demon with the Crest of Flames unnaturally for the purposes of acquiring a powerful weapon.” 

As Lysithea concluded a wave of whispers broke out across the tables. 

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Ingrid finally spoke up, “but doesn’t this sound a little… paranoid? I mean, it is clear that Solon has been engaged in this type of arcane research, but how do we know he has allies other than the ones we’ve seen?” 

“Lonato,” Ashe cut in at once. “There was a strange dark mage fighting alongside his militia. And it was a note in his possession that first threatened the Archbishop’s life so that the Ashen Demon could find a way to raid the Holy Mausoleum.” 

“It is indisputable,” Lysithea nodded. “I will happily share the documents I have collected to any who doubt it. The chronicles speak of men who returned from journeys with the same faces but seemingly different minds. I have letters and reports documenting cases of blood magic and occult uses of demonic beasts from the Empire, the Kingdom, and the Alliance. And I have an eyewitness account from House Ordelia concerning experimentation performed on children with the goal of imbuing them with a second Crest.” 

She said it so calmly, it took Annette a moment to realize what she meant. Lysithea was a member of House Ordelia. And she did bear an exceptionally powerful Crest, didn’t she?

Annette had never thought about it, Lysithea looked so cute normally, but that hair… The Ashen Demon had also had white hair. 

“Does anyone else have… ideas?” Annette broke the silence as everyone seemed to be following the same train of thought as her. A few throats cleared uncomfortably. 

“This is reminding me of a legend from Brigid,” Petra finally spoke. “Perhaps this is not helping, but I can tell what I know. In Brigid, we are often telling the story of Thinis. In our story, Thinis is an ancient city that revolted against the Goddess in the early days of the world. Back then, there were a wonderful people who had eyes that glowed and who could fly and the people of Thinis wished to have this power for themselves. However, only through… um, an eating of those wonderful people, could the men of Thinis gain their ability. And so the Goddess punished them with a terrible burning of the land. To soothe the fire there was a great flood that pushed Brigid away from the rest of the land, for the people there had done no wrong.” 

“What a wonderful story,” Mercedes said with awe, “but also so awful! I hope it is not true, but it reminds me of the legends of how Saint Seiros imbued Wilhem von Hresvelg with her Crest to fight in the War of Heroes!” 

“It is also very much like… what Professor Jeritza attempted to do,” Flayn finally spoke. She was sitting at the very edge of a bench, looking anxious. “While I have few memories of that incident, I believe it was my blood that he and Solon were attempting to extract. Due to my Crest, the Crest of Saint Cethleann, I had assumed he intended to attempt to use its healing properties.” 

“Great!” Annette jumped in. “Or… not great what he did to you, but it sounds like we are getting somewhere with this! 

“Honestly, I’m pretty impressed,” Claude piped up unexpectedly. He had been listening with his fingers steepled together, eyes closed like he was deep in thought. “I guess this might be a good time to add some of my own ideas, then. Anyone ever heard of a place called Abyss?” 

Annette shook her head and saw others doing the same. 

“Not exactly,” Hilda spoke up to everyone’s surprise, “but I did hear a rumor that a few… I guess former students from the Officers Academy still hung around? One of my brother’s old friends actually spotted me a couple weeks ago and mentioned something about it.” 

“Well, for the uninitiated, it’s a town below the monastery. An entire town of people that the Church just allows to exist, but never tells the students about,” Claude explained. “I may have found my way in. Wouldn’t recommend paying a visit, though. They’re a bit rough with strangers. I managed to get into the good graces of their leader, however, and he let me borrow some very interesting reading material from the library down there.” 

“What kinds of text would some sort of sewer library have that the monastery lacks?” Ferdinand asked skeptically. 

“Well, plenty of books personally banned by our own dear Seteth, on the one hand. A couple of them pretty dirty,” Claude said with a shrug, “others talk about all kinds of discoveries or arcane advances that the Archbishop has banned on the principles of unity or safety or stability.” 

“What would the Archbishop ban?” Ignatz asked, his brows creasing in worry. “Dangerous weapons?” 

“Sure, dangerous weapons,” Claude nodded, “also, a printing press that could make books cheap and readily available for all of Fódlan. Dangerous things, those books.” 

“I’m not sure I understand how this is related to our topic, Claude,” Ingrid interjected sharply. “Perhaps you might get to the point?”

“You’ve gotta let me do it with style, Ingrid,” Claude said with a grin, “that’s half of the fun of it. Anyways, the relevant point is a book I’ve found called the _Romance of the World’s Perdition_. It seems to be about our friends from Thinis, I believe Petra mentioned them, and how the False God, sometimes called the Fell Star, was attempting to drown their world in Despair. The writer seems to be convinced that they had been invaded by monsters from the stars above and that the only solution was to dig a city beneath the ground and wait for revenge.” 

“You are saying that books from Fódlan also speak about Thinis!” Petra said with some alarm. 

“That actually reminds me of an old Kingdom legend,” Sylvain added. “The underworld, or the land of ghosts. It’s an old scary story about how those who die unavenged are trapped in a cold world beneath the ground. It has a name sometimes… what is it…” 

“Agartha,” Claude finished the sentence with a knowing smile. 

And had Annette imagined that Dimitri had just flinched? 

“I think I’m a little lost,” Annette said. “So, we know there is some group of mages researching blood magic to try to put Crests into people. We think the Ashen Demon is one of their successful experiments, and they seem to at least be working with the Western Church. And they also might be connected to ancient legends about a city of people under the ground?” 

“It is all rather speculative,” Hubert spoke for the first time. He had been sitting beside Edelgard with an odd smile playing about his mouth as they had debated. “Ghosts and demons. Cold hands reaching up from deep under the ground. Monsters wearing the faces of friends. Foul enemies that Slither in the Dark. It sounds like a macabre tale for a winter night.” 

“I like a good old tale, what can I say?” Claude replied easily. “Every legend has a grain of truth, right?” 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Hubert said, “but perhaps we ought to steer our discussion back to more practical subjects. After all, we are merely students. How can we go about stopping such a vast network if even the Church of Seiros is ignorant to its existence?” 

“You let me get a shot at them, they won’t have such a vast network!” Caspar said, putting his arms casually behind his head. “I say we track down Solon ourselves, make him talk, and start takin’ ‘em out!” 

“I actually have something to say now,” Leonie interrupted. 

Annette didn’t know Leonie very well. She’d kept to herself more than most that year on account of Jeralt, that old captain who’d gone mad. And after poor Alois had been killed on a mission with her, she’d been nearly as unfindable as Bernadetta.

Annette felt terrible for her. To lose two mentors in one year was unthinkable. Especially when one of them was still alive, was still here, but didn’t seem to want to know you anymore. 

Or that might just be projecting. Annette had her own situation to deal with there. 

“This isn’t about any ancient legends or conspiracies or anything,” Leonie said. “It’s about Captain Jeralt.” 

“Shocking,” Lorenz said sarcastically. “Leonie wants to talk about Captain Jeralt for some reason.” 

“Oh, poor Lorenz,” Mercedes said with a very genuine sounding sigh, “someone will need to explain to you how this is related. I can certainly try if you’re having trouble.” 

Annette nearly choked but kept her composure. Mercie was a treasure. 

“I found his journal,” Leonie said, apparently not bothered by Lorenz’s comment.

Her voice was soft, a little shaky, and she looked down into her lap as she talked. “Alois told me where to find it, actually, before… ah, anyways I have it. Apparently when Captain Jeralt lived at Garreg Mach, he fell in love with one of the nuns, a woman named Sitri. However, the child they produced was stillborn and Sitri died in labor. Lady Rhea took the child to try to heal it, but Jeralt suspected that when she was able to revive the baby it was… different. He said the child was odd, it never cried or laughed, it had blood in its veins, but there was no heartbeat in its chest. Jeralt decided to leave the monastery and tell Rhea that the child had perished in a fire. I believe that is the same child who was taken from him by mages over a year ago.” 

Annette felt her jaw drop. Of all the people here, she hadn’t expected Leonie to drop the biggest bomb of all. 

“Marianne,” Dimitri said urgently. His eyes had lost that distant look and he was focused entirely on Marianne now, who was sitting in the corner away from the table, looking like she wished she could leave. “What you said about the Ashen Demon, do you recall?” 

“He, um, well, when I tried using white magic against him,” Marianne spoke barely above a whisper, “he had no heartbeat.”

“The Ashen Demon is Captain Jeralt’s son,” Leonie nodded wearily. “That is why the church is keeping him here. They know it. And they are afraid that Jeralt will side with his child against the church if they set him free.” 

“Then it is the Church of Seiros, perhaps, that we ought to interrogate more closely,” Edelgard said. Her presence was so instantly commanding that no one dared to interrupt her as she took a long pause between her words. 

“I believe what we are neglecting to ask is how many different interests might be reflected here. Certainly there may be some small group of dark mages attempting to claim power, but we all heard the words the Ashen Demon spoke. He fights against the Church of Seiros, not for a shadow group devoted to blood magic. The Church has lied to us, deceived us outright about Captain Jeralt, and intentionally limited the spread of information,” Edelgard said, her voice level, but so forceful it was almost like she was shouting. “While I believe we must destroy those who would stoop to vile experiments on children, I think we must also consider how our own systems already support, conceal, or tolerate such abominations.”

A few nods began around the table. It was a fairly radical point, but even Annette found herself convinced by the fervent words. 

Dimitri slammed his fist down on the table so hard that the wood cracked. 

“Our own systems?” he said, his voice suddenly hard and cold and unlike Annette had ever heard it before. Usually Dimitri was sweet, polite, if a little odd and vacant at times. “You are walking dangerously close to _heresy_ , Edelgard. Would you have the Archbishop surrendered to the demon? Would you let the church burn for its secrets, without bothering to ask why they were kept? What future would you have? What path would you cut for us?” 

Edelgard, usually unflappable, actually looked shocked in silence. 

“I-” she began hesitantly. 

“All of these people, these _monsters_ , these _murderous animals_ ,” Dimitri said, standing and gripping the edge of the cracked table like he might tear it in two, “they are all the same, they are all together, no matter what they claim. Solon was one. The Ashen Demon was another. The Flame Emperor works for them. Jeritza was one of them. Your own student, Monica, she was also one of them. All of them, _every last one of them_!” 

“If you have no toleration for nuance, you will be forever blind to the truth,” Edelgard replied harshly, seeming to recover herself. “I speak only as one who wishes the best for my subjects and who prefers to look to forging a better future, rather than concerning myself with the past. I have already told you, I do not have sympathy for those who would harm the innocent, but if you refuse to consider the possibility of a complex situation, then I believe my presence here will no longer be useful.”

Edelgard stood, and Hubert rose in unison with her. He had tensed at Dimiri’s outburst, not battle ready, by clearly watching the prince to see if he would actually strike. 

“Wait! Wait!” Annette said, trying to regain control where it was clearly already lost. “Let’s just take a deep breath, maybe. Try some of the turnovers, there’s plenty left. Claude? Do you have any, uh, goals or next steps?” 

Claude shrugged and held up his hands. 

“Some fair points have been made,” he said diplomatically, “I have no need to dispute them.” 

“I still have questions for the Imperial Princess,” Dimitri said.

It was so strange to see him like this. Annette knew he had been through some hard times. She couldn’t imagine seeing her parents die in front of her. Even the one who’d abandoned her, she still would never wish him dead. But this was not just grief, not just anger. He seemed… almost gleeful. 

“Then ask,” Edelgard said, now facing him where he stood between her and the door. Dedue had risen to stand beside Dimitri, towering over Edelgard who, despite her small frame, had never appeared short to Annette before. 

“Could we do this sitting down!” Annette squeaked, wishing she could just crawl under the table until it was all over. 

Before Dimitri could open his mouth, the door swung open. 

“I am afraid the library is not open after hours,” Seteth said coldly, staring at the massive guilty group assembled inside. “And food is certainly not permitted.”

Annette scrambled to grab the untouched-but-for-Caspar plate of turnovers. 

“What is going on here?” Seteth asked, scanning the room with narrowed eyes and taking in just how many of them had packed into the space. 

“We are holding a study group, brother!” Flayn piped up. Thank the Goddess for Flayn, Annette thought. “Many of the others youths here, myself included, were feeling concern over the certification exams.

“I see. Well, for now I must ask that it disperse. We have had some new troubling reports from Shamir. Claude, Dimitri, Edelgard,” Seteth said, “the Archbishop would like to speak with you. The rest of you, please return to your rooms. One of the Knights will be by momentarily to escort you. Due to the security risks, we will be enforcing a curfew on student activities after the eighth bell from now on. During the day, students must remain with their assigned class and not wander beyond the monastery walls without the supervision of a professor or one of the Knights of Seiros.” 

Everyone watched silently as Edelgard followed Seteth out of the room. Claude quickly stood and went next. Dimitri squeezed his eyes shut and seemed to whisper something under his breath before turning his back on the room and following as well. 

“Good Synod, Annie,” Mercedes said. “I had a wonderful time. And look! You still have turnovers left!” 

Annette wanted to crawl under her bed and never be seen by anyone again.

Maybe Caspar was right. She ought to learn from her mistakes. And what she had learned was that she should never, ever, try something like this again.

“Seteth sent me to escort you all back to your rooms,” a familiar voice said from the door. Oh no. Of all people, not _him_ , not _now_. “If you could line up with those on the second floor first, please.” 

Annette stood as far back in the line as she could. The man, Gilbert, Gustave, father, dad, never turned to look at her. It was like she was invisible to him. 

Maybe that was for the best. She was embarrassed and tired and didn’t particularly want to be seen.

But, she still might have offered him one of the raspberry turnovers, if he’d asked. 

He didn’t ask. She walked back to her dormitory in the dark. _Creepity creep_ , indeed. _Creepity creep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge lore dump and Annette being way too hard on herself! I love her little song from the Claude support and the spookiness of it was just too much to pass up. How did y'all enjoy the comparative mythology? 
> 
> Next up, it's time to reveal the Flame Emperor. Who better to take on the case than the exemplary Ferdinand von Aegir, who always knows exactly what is going on and is never tricked or deceived?
> 
> Comments warm my heart and max my motivation for later training sessions!


	12. Throne of Unknowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand learns the identity of the Flame Emperor. His confidence is... shaken.

He awoke to another fantastic day. Early, as usual. He was blessed with a constitution that never tired, no matter how early he rose or how late he slept! The noble house of Aegir had risen to greatness with such a gift, coupled, of course, with bold hearts who did not fear hard work. 

And so he rose early, ate heartily, trained his body already imbued with natural grace and athleticism, and by the time morning lessons began he had already been awake for four productive hours while Edelgard had only the time to break bread and dress. 

Seteth assigned them their lessons for the day, but had little time to supervise them personally. The lack of faculty was certainly not ideal… but he had always thrived when given independence! He had inherited the iron will of his illustrious ancestors, the will that motivated him to strive for perfection, even when no one was watching. 

“Edelgard,” he announced as the morning was wearing on and soon the bells would be ringing for lunch. “I have already completed my assignments for today while you are apparently still busy. Is there anything I might do as an extra assignment? I do not want to waste any opportunity!” 

Edelgard looked up at him from her desk. One hand continued writing with her quill. She did have beautiful penmanship. Perhaps he ought to practice his own more. 

“Actually, Ferdinand, I am finished as well,” she said cooly, “I’m just attending to some personal correspondence briefly. If you would like to find some other activity, I will inform Professor Seteth upon his return of your diligence.” 

So she had finished before him. A blow, certainly. 

But, he could surely find a task more worthy of his talents than answering letters!

“I will seek others in need and assist them,” Ferdinand replied with a nod of his head. “Surely, at this very moment, some less fortunate student is struggling.” 

“Very well, then,” Edelgard said, looking back down to her letters. He had expected more of a response than that. Perhaps she was losing her edge. After she had apparently travelled to visit her ailing father, she had been a less than worthy rival to his talents. Nevertheless, he would persist. 

Outside of the Black Eagles classroom, he could hear Professor Hanneman still delivering a lecture to the Blue Lion students. No one to assist there, then. 

To the training grounds, perhaps! He might show some young student by example how diligent labor could achieve peak physical condition. 

Inside the training grounds, his well-honed senses were met with the smell of oil. 

“Oh dear,” a familiar voice sighed. “I just can’t seem to use enough of this stuff. Or maybe my arms are too weak to get through the grime.”

“Hilda!” Ferdinand greeted her. She was sitting beside a pile of weaponry laid out on towels, clearly attempting to clean them. “I see you are struggling with your assignments again. Do not think that I will allow you to trick me into doing your work this time, however. While my charity can be exploited once, a canny mind will not be fooled again.” 

“Oh, hi Ferdinand,” Hilda said innocently, as though she had only then noticed his presence. “I promise, I am really trying to do my own tasks this time. Professor Manuela told me to clean and sharpen all these rusty old throwing axes, but I just can’t seem to get through all this dirt.” 

“Well, then you will need to apply yourself more hardily to the task,” Ferdinand said, crossing his arms. She had already gotten him to reorganize the library and feed the horses for her this month. He would not be so easily tricked again. 

Nothing could escape a mind so sharp, senses so refined, intuition so wise as his own. 

“Yes, I absolutely do need to try harder,” Hilda agreed. “You have set such a good example, Ferdinand. After you helped me before, I realized that I wanted to be just like you. So capable. So confidant.” 

“Right… well,” Ferdinand said, feeling his face flush a bit. Perhaps he had truly inspired her. He was so focused on improving himself usually, he must have been blind to how much his mere presence affected others. “I must admit, I am an expert at weapon maintenance.”

“I’ve seen you do remarkable things,” Hilda sighed. “That lance you fixed up last week? So beautiful and shiny now! But, I do think these axes are a bit further gone than even you could fix.” 

“What?” Ferdinand scoffed. “Of course I could polish these up. Why, I need only take some of this, apply sufficient vigorous scrubbing, and there!” 

“Oh goodness, that rust just came right off! But what about this one? The whole blade is just dull with rust!” 

“Well, with a good sharpening stone like this after you polish it like so….” 

Ferdinand froze. He had already polished two of the handaxes for Hilda. She sat on the floor, gazing up at him with that smiling, enraptured face. 

Tricked. How could he have possibly been tricked again? 

“Oh no, I’m letting you do that all by yourself,” she sighed sadly, noticing him freeze. “Here, why don’t I hand you the tools?” 

“I believe it might be best for you to apply my tutoring yourself now,” Ferdinand said, setting the polish and the smithing stone back onto the ground. “Your determination to never achieve anything on your own is truly astounding.” 

Well, this was another setback, he thought as he left. His hands smelled of oily polish and his face was sweating from the scrubbing. Still, he recalled the wise words of an incomparable young lady of House Nouvelle he’d been acquainted with as a child.

Life was filled with peaks and valleys. If this was the valley, the peak must truly be _astoundingly_ great. To imagine that a moment of splendor, but briefly marred, such as today might be a low point must mean that his highest zenith would surpass any other. 

The bells rang for lunch and Ferdinand settled for wiping his face and hands clean with a handkerchief before he took his meal. They were to be serving pheasant that day, a particular favorite of his.

Unfortunately when he arrived at the dining hall, he was greeted with the news that game supplies had been depleted due to the students no longer being allowed to hunt in the surrounding forests. It would be fish sandwiches again.

He glanced down the long rows of tables. Edelgard was not present. Perhaps she had decided to take lunch in her quarters to finish with her letters. Hubert was missing as well, which meant he was likely following Edelgard about like a sneering shadow. 

If he ate with the other members of his house, Dorothea would likely insult him, Caspar would cram his food into his mouth so quickly it might sicken him, and Bernadetta would just stuff her portion into a bag and scurry away. 

He looked to the other tables, then. He supposed he might enjoy the company of some of the Kingdom nobles. He found Sylvain a bit crass, Felix a bit rude, Ingrid a bit rough with her table manners, and Dimitri… well, Dimitri looked like he hadn’t slept in the past month and stared emptily at his food like it was so much dust to him. 

“Ferdinand,” the refined voice of Lorenz greeted him as his eyes scanned the hall. “Do join me today, I have prepared a little treat for us to help wash away the atrocious flavor of this food.”

“I am in your debt,” Ferdinand said, sitting across from the other young noble. Lorenz gestured to a pot of tea, his own tasteful china, sitting beside his hardly touched fish. “Is that Almyran pine needles I smell?” 

“You have cultured your senses well,” Lorenz said with a nod. “I did indeed select it for today. I thought perhaps a bold flavor would best refresh us after this dreadful selection of food.” 

Lorenz poured him a cup, tipping the pot just so and allowing Ferdinand to see the perfectly steeped color of the tea as it flowed into his cup. Masterful. Lorenz poured tea with almost as much sophistication as he did himself. 

“What is the news from the Golden Deer house?” Ferdinand asked once they had both taken sufficient time to enjoy their first sip. “I am sorry to report most unbecoming behavior from Hilda once again.” 

“Ah, did you fall for another of her little deceptions?” Lorenz said, then immediately corrected his course as he saw Ferdinand’s face. “I mean only that she takes advantage of your natural benevolence... your noble largesse.”

“I am not easily tricked, Lorenz,” Ferdinand said grimly, “my mind is steel sharpened with the whetstone of wit. How about yourself? I have heard you still experience difficulty with finding suitable young ladies here.”

It was Lorenz’s turn to grimace.

“Yes, I am beginning to believe they simply do not exist,” Lorenz said. “Do you know what Mercedes told me the other day? She said I treated commoner women as though they were invisible. She said I was blind to anyone I did not deem worthy of myself. It could not be further from the truth.” 

“Of course!” Ferdinand agreed. “We are not blind at all. We merely see from a higher vantage, able to perceive the whole, rather than just the humble part.” 

Both of them took long sips of tea. 

At that moment, Seteth entered the dining hall. He did not often eat with his students as Professor Manuela and Professor Hanneman sometimes did, although Ferdinand had heard he was fond of fish. However, as he cleared his throat and stood stiffly before the rows of tables, it became clear he was there to make an announcement rather than to dine. 

“All students will report to the cathedral after the next bell,” he said as the students' voices grew hushed and faces turned to look at him. “You will demonstrate piety and proper solemn behavior for the occasion. The Archbishop wishes to address you all on a matter of importance regarding monastery security.” 

Whispers broke out across the hall as he left, students immediately beginning to speculate about what the purpose of such a meeting might be. The Archbishop seldom spoke directly to them, preferring to keep her distance from the affairs of the academy. 

This might be a perfect occasion, Ferdinand realized, for him to display his exemplary knowledge of sacred history, church liturgy, or even his heavenly singing voice if there were to be hymns. 

“An address by Rhea herself,” Lorenz mused, pouring a second cup of tea. “How intriguing.”

The cathedral in the afternoon was alight with colors. The stained glass of the windows refracted blues, greens, reds over the grey of the stones and while the candles were still lit, their flickering only served to illuminate the shadowed corners. Footsteps echoed up to the heights of the vaulted roof as the students filed in and took seats in the pews. 

Archbishop Rhea stood waiting for them at the daias before the altar. She wore the full regalia of her office, draping her form in gold and silk until it was almost difficult to see the woman within. On the walls, smiling portraits of the saints watched over them, suspended in backgrounds of blue sky and white clouds as though they were flying. 

Ferdinand had never felt a particular drive towards the spiritual life. Certainly he was as proper and respectful as any towards the Church of Seiros, but his spirit was one of action rather than of contemplation. As such, he found it difficult to be moved by the beauty of the cathedral except when idly imagining how his own portrait might look painted on such a wall. 

Once the students were seated and the echoes of creaking wood and cleared throats had died away, Rhea stepped forward to speak. 

“My dear students,” she began. Her voice was warm, comforting, like a drop of honey in a fruit tea. “I extend my thanks to all of you for your courage during this difficult year. You have faced threats no other group of graduates from the Officers Academy have ever faced before. The heresy of the Western Church and its affiliates within the walls of our monastery, as well as the disturbing actions of the individual known as Solon, have compromised our ability to provide you with a safe educational environment.” 

Rhea paused here. Ferdinand felt himself lean forward in anticipation. Surely they would not be sending them away? 

After their actions throughout the year, the Archbishop must realize that the students were some of her greatest assets. She had the heirs to three nations at her disposal not to mention the noble bloodlines that brought with them Crests and even hero’s relics. He himself could likely take down Solon if they but pointed him in the right direction. 

“It is for this reason that I intend to seek the guidance of the Goddess Sothis,” Rhea continued. A few whispers broke out as she said it. “Thousands of years before, Saint Seiros received a revelation from the Goddess at the throne of the holy tomb. While it has since remained warded and sealed for centuries, tonight I intend to open it once again. Such a ceremony will require the aid of all of you to ensure that this sacred space is kept pure and undefiled. I have ordered the knights to patrol the monastery walls and gates, but I ask that you join in our efforts and accompany me to the holy tomb itself.” 

Ferdinand glanced uncertainly down the row of pews. Surely this was an unusual plan for such a time. If the Archbishop was concerned for her safety, why take the risk on the off-chance that she might gain some spiritual insight from an ancient crypt? 

From the other end of the long bench, Edelgard stood up. 

“If this is our assignment for the month, the Black Eagle house will happily assist in protecting the holy tomb. However, I believe that by dividing our forces, we may be able to provide better coverage without the risk of having us all trapped below should something occur at the monastery,” she said, her voice conveying nothing but respectful rationality. “Our enemies will surely take advantage of our distraction.” 

As soon as she had stood, Ferdinand noticed that Dimitri leapt to his feet as well. His eyes were darkly shadowed, almost bruised looking in the light from the cathedral windows, but a half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

“I must disagree with Edelgard,” he interrupted. “We are stronger united. All of us. Together. We fight as one or we are  _ destroyed _ .” 

His voice pitched low towards the end, emerging as nearly a growl. Ferdinand had the strange impression that despite the platitude of comradery, he was also making a threat. 

“The Golden Deer are happy to serve, as always,” Claude added, seeming to realize it was now expected that he make some sort of pledge. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to see the Goddess’ revelation for anything.” 

“Tactical decisions are being handled by the church,” Rhea said, holding up a hand to soothe the suddenly tense students. “There is no need to debate these matters. All of you will be needed as witnesses to this great revelation. I ask only that you prepare yourselves. Your professors will escort you to the tomb’s entrance by sunset.” 

So that was it. Ferdinand felt uneasy. After their falling out the month before, there was clearly something happening between Dimitri and Edelgard, not to mention Claude. 

It felt like walking into a room where everyone had been talking and hearing all the voices suddenly fall silent at your presence. He did not appreciate the unnerving sensation that he was being left out of some important matter. 

Still, he thought, shaking his head to drive away the sensation, he would rise to the challenge. He had never failed to get to the bottom of any matter he set his mind to before. If the Archbishop herself honored them with an invitation to the holy tomb, it could only mean she was completely confident in their abilities. In his abilities! 

He had refined his body into a perfectly tuned instrument of war, he had strengthened his mind into a swift engine, and he had the heart of a true noble which meant he would know the right choice when it presented itself. If there were dark forces at work, he need not fear them. 

When the moment arrived, he would know when to strike, and where, and just how hard. 

All afternoon, other students rushed about in preparation for the ritual at sunset. Ferdinand naturally went to knock on Edelgard’s door. She would need his guidance most dearly at a time like this. He might recommend to her that she practice the subtle art of courtly intrigue when she next dealt with the Archbishop. Her blunt honesty was likely not doing her any favors.

However, his knock went unanswered. Unsettling.

But not enough to damage his spirit! 

He would write a letter, he decided. He would prove that his penmanship was indisputably finer while at the same time gently instructing Edelgard on rhetorical nonchalance in politics. 

It took him several hours to compose the letter, pacing about his room, rejecting several drafts where his ink had blotted slightly, and sifting through a few of his own pamphlets on courtiership for inspiration. _The Mirror for the Emperor_ , he would call it. Perhaps this would be the first of many letters. 

As he heard the other students leaving their dorms by evening, he slid the letter under Edelgard’s door. When she returned, she would find his advice inescapable. Although she might hide for an afternoon, she would have to return to rest eventually. 

They returned to the cathedral as the sun began to dip below the horizon. Edelgard and Hubert arrived only just in time to follow Seteth as he began to lead them across the bridge. The cold air whipped around them as they walked, forcing them to move quickly. 

As they walked, Ferdinand accidentally found himself falling into step beside Hilda. Her brows were creased and her mouth pulled into a small pout.

“Hilda,” he addressed her as they approached the cathedral, “are you perhaps feeling regretful over your actions earlier today? I am a merciful man; I would accept a sincere apology.” 

“That’s so sweet of you Ferdinand,” Hilda said with a little smile. “I knew you’d forgive me for messing up again. Maybe you could tell Professor Manuela about how useless I’ve been and how much more helpful I could be cheering people on from the sidelines instead of something like this!”

“Do you lack the courage for battle?” Ferdinand asked. “I have heard tales of incredible feats you perform on the field from your classmates.” 

“I just don’t want to get hurt,” Hilda sighed. “Fighting isn’t my talent, I’ve got my brother for that. Or you, maybe, if you aren’t too angry with me.” 

“A true noble would never let his personal feelings prevent him from acting with honor to defend the weak,” Ferdinand declared. Hilda smiled with the look of a cat receiving a dish of cream. 

“Thank you Ferdinand, I knew you’d come through,” she said. 

They arrived at the cathedral. In the light of the setting sun, it was shadowed, lit only by narrow gleams of orange and red and the flickering candles. In the low light, the students moved like faceless spectres through a mist of darkness. 

Seteth led them to the back of the cathedral and then his hands spun over the frescoed walls. Glowing circular runes appeared in the air, rotating slowly until they flared with light. A square of the floor vanished at that same moment, revealing a polished set of stone stairs. 

The stairs descended far deeper than Ferdinand expected. His knees were beginning to quiver by the time they reached a landing. The landing was unusual. As his feet hit it, he heard the ringing of metal against his boots. They were standing on a large circular platform of polished steel. And it was… humming. 

Once all of them were standing atop the platform, the humming increased in volume. Green light began to seep up through shallow grooves in the metal, tracing intricate patterns. They didn’t look like arcane runes to his eye, but as soon as they lit, he felt the platform shudder and then begin to slide down slowly into the earth. 

Ferdinand luckily had exceptional balance. 

The platform descended quickly, making his stomach seem to rise and popping his ears as they raced down into the ground. When it came to a halt, he steeled himself for an impact, but instead it slowed and they stopped with barely a wobble. 

With a faint hiss, the walls around them slid open and that pale green glow illuminated an enormous room beyond. 

His first impression was the sheer scope of the chamber. The pillars towered up almost beyond his vision, making the room at least as tall as the cathedral above. The room itself was long, filled with even rows of stone coffins. At the far end, Ferdinand could make out the shape of a throne, carved from stone, illuminated from below with that strange green light. 

Rhea stood beside the throne. Ferdinand had never noticed before how much she bore herself like a soldier. Even beneath the fine robe and the elaborate headdress, she had the straight back and firmly planted stance of a trained fighter.

They filed into the cavernous space, most eyes fixed upward in wonder. It took several minutes for all of them to reach the other end of the vast hall. Ferdinand felt small, like a child wandering into a banquet, picking his way through the legs of adults. He was confident in his abilities as a man, but… this was a room meant for a Goddess. 

“Lady Rhea, we are prepared to begin,” Seteth said with a nod as they reached the end of the hall at last.

“Not quite,” she said. She sounded strange, breathless. Up close her eyes were almost dreamy, her cheeks flushed slightly. “We must wait a while longer yet.” 

“I am not sure I understand,” Seteth balked, then seemed to shake it off. “The students are assembled… but of course I defer to your wisdom.” 

“Yes, I have brought them here,” Rhea said in that same misty voice. “Soon, we will see… we will have our revelation.” 

“With all due respect, Archbishop, I’m a little confused,” Claude said. 

“You,” Rhea said, her eyes finally focusing as she glanced at Claude, “you have an appetite for secrets. Sometimes an improper one given the secrets you keep yourself.” 

Her odd tone shocked even Claude into silence. She turned next to Dimitri. 

“And then there was you,” she said with a smile, “such a darkness behind your eyes. I wondered for a long while, but…”

And then she turned to Edelgard. 

“Call him,” Rhea said simply. 

Ferdinand turned to his house leader. Edelgard’s face was schooled to neutrality. He ought to do something, to assist her or to save her from making an error here. 

But he did not understand. He did not understand what the Archbishop was saying at all. He was lost. Left out. He had no advice to give.

Then Edelgard raised her hand and nodded to Hubert.

Immediately, shimmering black and violet energy crackled throughout the room. Figures materialized from the darkness, familiar figures. 

They were Imperial soldiers. He would know that armor anywhere. There was a general among them, one of the ambitious young men of Enbarr who Ferdinand had seen before.

“Collect the Crest stones and kill anyone who attempts to stop you,” Edelgard commanded. She had taken the axe from the loop at her belt. 

“No,” Rhea spoke coldly, “no, you _wicked_ girl, you dare defile a holy place. I asked you to summon him, to bring the demon here.”

“The Ashen Demon does not fight for the Adrestian Empire,” Edelgard said. “I am afraid I have no authority to bring him forth. I tried to tell you before, not all of your enemies are as united as you believe. However, Rhea, your  _ bait _ may have worked. Perhaps he will show himself if his masters think it a worthy chance at your life.” 

“Edelgard, what is going-” Ferdinand began, but she cut him off without even looking at him.

“I ask that all of you stand down. I have no desire to spill your blood, but I will if you interfere. Instead, I ask you to stand with me if you can bring yourself to do so,” Edelgard said, her voice raised now as she addressed the assembled students. “The Church of Seiros has long held this world in tyranny. They live in luxury while the poor starve and suffer. They enforce a system of power based upon bloodline rather than merit. And they have stolen that authority. Our world was once ruled by humankind, not by monsters who wear their shapes. Soon, our ancestors will arise and claim their supremacy once again. If you do not stand with them, you will perish. I beg you, as a fellow student, not as an emperor, to listen and to join me so that you can be saved!” 

The sound of weapons being unsheathed filled the room. Flayn had backed up and Seteth was gripping her shoulders with fingers nearly gone white. Ferdinand loosened the axe at his belt, feeling his mouth go dry. 

When the moment came, he would know what to do. He had a noble heart, he would know what was right. Right? 

“Kill her,” Rhea spoke sharply. “She is a danger to all of Fódlan, a poisonous snake lurking in our midst. Such a rebellious heart cannot be allowed to live!” 

“You need to listen to me!” Edelgard shouted. She was usually so collected, Ferdinand thought. All of that drive, that fire inside of her, was finally set free now. “War is coming! We have no choice in that matter. You have all seen what Solon was capable of doing in Remire village. Surrender or watch helplessly as the same is done to your villages, your cities, your kingdoms! Help me cut away the cancer before it is too late and then we can debate how much blood it should have cost. There is justice in this cause as well. You have just watched your Archbishop use you as bait for a monster she helped to create. When you see her true face, you must understand that this is the _only_ way. This is our destined path and we must walk it or we will be annihilated in flames!” 

Someone began to laugh. 

Ferdinand turned and through the now rapidly parting students he saw that it was Dimitri. His hair hung over his eyes as his shoulders trembled with high-pitched, hysterical laughter. 

“Is this some kind of twisted joke?” he asked, the laugher fading as suddenly as it had manifested and turning into a snarl. 

“Edelgard is the Flame Emperor,” Claude said slowly, the realization sending a shockwave through the room. “She has been working with them all this time. We should wait, listen to-” 

Something whistled through the air and Ferdinand watched Edelgard flinch as a spear passed so close to her face, a few of her silver-white hairs shifted in the wind. Hubert immediately stepped forward, his hands sparking with magic. 

Dimitri ran for her, unarmed and apparently uncaring. One of the Imperial soldiers moved to intercept him and Ferdinand saw the brief flare of his Crest illuminate the room before he crushed the man’s skull with his bare hand, spattering his own face in a mist of blood. 

When the moment came, Ferdinand thought. His heart was beating faster and faster. He would know what to do. He would. He had to. 

“Destroy her, now!” Rhea commanded. “Do not let them touch the resting places of the Goddess’ children with their filthy hands.” 

The room seemed to erupt. 

Imperial soldiers charged into the midst of the students. Some were fighting. Some were running. Ferdinand stepped back, barely avoiding Seteth whirling a scythe and severing the head of one of the Imperial soldiers. 

Somewhere behind him he heard Edelgard give a wordless scream of effort as she shoved Dimitri back with a powerful swing of her axe. A blast of howling darkness brought Ingrid to her knees as she struggled forward through the throng to try to help him and Hubert laughed until an arrow from Claude came arching over the melee and pierced through one of his hands. Ashe had backed up to join the Imperial soldiers, firing continuously into the ranks of his former classmates, grim and resigned. 

Ferdinand staggered and then fell, tripping against one of the stone coffins. An Imperial soldier had shoved the heavy top aside and was reaching in to retrieve something. Ferdinand’s hands felt numb as he fumbled towards his axe. 

A ball of fire slammed into him as his fingers struggled to raise the weapon. Bewildered and disoriented he looked around until his eyes locked with Lorenz. Ferdinand’s mouth was open. Searing pain exploded through him where the fire had struck. Were they enemies? Who was he raising his axe for? Or against? 

Lorenz raised his arm again, but then he was knocked to the ground with a cry, his body skidding several feet across the floor as he crumbled. Hilda stood behind him, wielding an enormous hammer. Her eyes briefly locked with Ferdinand’s, looking as panicked as he felt. She had saved his life. Had she even meant to do it?

He wanted to run. He wanted out. He wanted to go home, but home was the Empire and Edelgard was the Emperor and he was Ferdinand von Aegir and his duty was to serve the Emperor. 

A scream pierced the air, loud enough that even in the chaos of the battle, people paused for a moment. Ferdinand looked wildly about, trying to shelter himself as best he could behind the pillar. 

At the far end of the chamber, the doors had opened once again. And he had come. 

Rhea’s face broke into a smile. 

“At last…” she whispered to the Ashen Demon. 

The demon walked forward as the fight seemed to stop. Even Dimitri had ceased his rush towards Edelgard, although Ferdinand saw with a lurch of his stomach that it was only because he appeared to have dislocated his shoulder and been dragged back by Dedue. 

“You are not needed here,” Edelgard spoke. There was a hint of fear in her voice. “Tell your masters we will bring them what they ask for.” 

“I will ensure it,” the Ashen Demon said in his empty rasp of a voice. He sounded almost unused to speaking aloud, as though he did it so infrequently that his voice had worn thin and ragged. 

“Give them more time to decide,” Edelgard insisted. “Once these students see our power, they will join with us, I am certain.” 

“It does not matter,” the Ashen Demon drew closer. “They are not necessary.” 

The Sword of the Creator glowed in his hand, as bright as if he had just drawn it from the blacksmith’s flame. He would kill them all, Ferdinand realized. With no hesitation.

“Come closer, dear child, please,” Rhea spoke, her voice still so tender. She was _mad_ , Ferdinand realized. She was as mad as Dimitri, or perhaps even further gone. “Sit, please, do you recognize this?” 

To his surprise, the Ashen Demon looked up at the throne. 

“I do,” he whispered. 

Rhea stepped forward and Seteth gasped, his hands clenching at his sides as if to draw her back. She walked to the steps before the throne, reaching out towards the Ashen Demon as he drew nearer. 

This was Jeralt’s child, Ferdinand recalled. The old Captain had suspicions of Rhea after she had apparently saved the baby from a difficult birth. What had she done to save him, Ferdinand wondered. 

The Ashen Demon, Byleth Eisner, took another step towards the throne. 

“Please, just sit, dear one,” Rhea pleaded, beckoning him on. “Just for a moment.” 

“I…” the demon’s flat voice trailed away. “I have been forged to break you.” 

“Then try,” Rhea’s voice was breathless. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck. 

What happened next happened so fast, Ferdinand barely made sense of what occured. 

The Ashen Demon flashed forward and Rhea lunged to meet him, twisting him back and slamming him into the throne with more force than anything Ferdinand could have imagined her capable of. For a split second, something seemed to shift on the Demon’s still face. Perhaps just a moment of irritation? 

But he was sitting on the throne now. Rhea had dropped to her knees, staring up at him. 

“Mother?” she whispered. 

The Ashen Demon looked curiously down at himself, and then stood. He shook his head once. Then he hoisted his sword and the blade split into a long segmented whip. 

Rhea screamed. And as she screamed, the sound seemed to shatter in her throat. A low roar filled the room and a bright glow nearly blinded them all. Beams of light seemed to explode from her back, forming arches of pale white light which began to solidify. Enormous wings, he realized. 

The roar grew louder until the scream of the woman was subsumed by it. The floor shook as enormous claws shifted against it. 

“We have the stones, that is our only objective!” Edelgard shouted over the sound. “Retreat! With me!”

“The Immaculate One herself,” Hubert chuckled from beside Edelgard, grasping her hand with his own bloodied palm as he prepared to warp them away. 

“With me!” Edelgard called again, her voice cracking from the effort. Students scattered across the room. 

Ferdinand looked up at the massive creature now towering over the throne, its head nearly scraping the ceiling of the chamber. Then he turned to Edelgard, surrounded now by Hubert and Ashe and Caspar and Dorothea and Petra and Bernadetta and even Lorenz. 

The moment came. 

Ferdinand ran towards Edelgard and the room around him dissolved in a burst of arcane energy. 

When his moment had come he had been blind. Ignorant. He had been deceived. He had been tricked, once again. And now everything had changed and he didn’t know who he was anymore. 

He returned to his body on the cold, damp floor of a temporary encampment near the edge of Garreg Mach’s territory. As soon as he did, his knees hit the ground and he felt himself lean forward and wretch. 

“Help him up,” Edelgard said, her voice heavy with exhaustion. “Gather the wounded. I will address the troops in a moment.” 

Hubert’s fingers dug into his arm as he was pulled to his feet. 

“You chose wisely,” Hubert murmured into his ear. “I must admit, I am a little disappointed.” 

Ferdinand said nothing. This was a valley, he told himself as he stood there, shaking. The peak was coming eventually. This was just the very bottom of the lowest valley. 

Far away, on the thin carpet of the monastery dormitory, the _Mirror for the Emperor_ sat gathering dust on the floor. 

It would wait there for many years. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand von Aegir has never done anything wrong in his life ever. That scene with Lorenz, however, made me physically ill to write. Next up, it's Edelgard time. The Hegemon herself will march on Garreg Mach alongside her demon. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments! Comment again and I will gift you with an elegant tea set, since surely you can appreciate its value. Clearly you have refined and noble tastes to appreciate such fan fiction!


	13. To War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard marches on Garreg Mach with the Ashen Demon by her side. Stars fall from the sky.

There was a time once where she would have been praying.

When she was a girl, she had prayed every night before she went to bed. Not just because it was expected, no, she had believed. She had believed with every fiber of her that a Goddess watched over her, protected her, loved her. She had looked out of her bedroom window and up at the stars and believed that someone would keep her safe while she slept. 

After her uncle had taken her away, she had prayed for a while then too. Belief can only withstand so long when no one comes to save you. 

Edelgard paced in the narrow confines of her tent, her only refuge of privacy in the crowded camp. She had the Crest Stones. Some of the students had followed her. It was better than she had expected. Still, her heart pounded and her hands shook as she walked in small circles and tried to make a plan. 

Her uncle ( _ her uncle who was also not her uncle anymore _ ) would want to speak with her soon. Then she would need to make a public statement before the troops, something so they could go into battle with courage. 

It would be worth it. She ought to jot that down, find the words to convince herself first before she could write something to persuade the others. It would be worth it. The Agarthans had the power to destroy the Church of Seiros, root it out within the Kingdom and the Alliance before it had the chance to recover. Once the Church was gone and the systems it represented destroyed with it, then she could worry about purging the vile creatures like Solon and Kronya and Thales from existence. 

All she had to do was play her part, keep the Adrestian Empire safe from whatever horror they intended to unleash upon the rest of Fódlan. Civilians would die horribly, innocent people whose only crime was believing a lie because they were too weak to accept the truth. Many of her classmates would die then as well; Dimitri had pledged that he would not stop until he had her head. She would never forget that look on his face, in his eyes… 

But it would be worth it.

There was one factor, however, that could be neither controlled nor wisely accounted for, and that frightened her. 

That mercenary, the one Rhea had so desperately wanted at the tomb. Her uncle had been careful to keep her away from him, which meant there was something she was not supposed to know. After seeing the way Rhea had called out to him, she was beginning to think she had an idea of what. 

He had some connection to the Fell Star, that was clear. If he was Jeralt Eisner’s missing child, then perhaps Rhea had done her own experiments to imbue him with that miraculous speed. 

Solon and his people seemed to have spent some time with him as well, she thought with a shudder. She assumed that had been done to implant the Crest of Flames within him, a process she was all too familiar with, but she could not be certain that there hadn’t been more. 

Which made him unpredictable and obviously dangerous to her, particularly if she ever did hope to destroy her allies once she’d finished using them. Their numbers were small, which meant that for the time they still required her position, but with Byleth there was no telling what damage they might intend to inflict. 

As she paced and considered, she heard the gentle sound of the tent flap drawing back slightly. 

“My lady,” Hubert’s low voice inquired from outside. “May I enter?” 

“You may,” she replied, forcing herself to stop the frantic moving and appear composed. Hubert had a tendency to fret over her, although he’d never admit it and no one else would probably think him capable of it. 

“The church is preparing for a siege,” Hubert reported, stepping in and bowing his head deferentially. “We are ready to send a strike force in as the first wave and then invade through the town once the gates have fallen.” 

“Well done,” Edelgard said, “there are enough of our own from the Officers Academy left to compose the strike force, although I’ve heard nothing yet from Linhardt or his father. Still, I am grateful we could save so many. I was prepared to walk this path alone, if not.” 

“So long as I am here, you will never be alone,” Hubert said softly. 

She glanced over his face. His usual sardonic smile was gone, replaced only with burning intensity. He would never abandon her, she knew that. But he was, as he often said, her shadow. Although they walked side by side, there would always be distance. 

_He just imprisoned his own father for you_ , she reminded herself fiercely. He had barely spoken of it, certainly never complained, and here she was lamenting that his abject devotion was not enough. 

Sometimes, Edelgard suspected that she was a horrible person. 

All she could do was make sure she unleashed herself on the right target. 

“Thank you, Hubert,” she finally replied. “I know you will not approve, but I would like to personally lead the strike force assault on the monastery. Our allies will likely send support and I need to be there in case they alter our plans.” 

“I humbly request that you do not, my lady, but I know that does little to change your mind,” Hubert sighed. “The Ashen Demon is likely to be present, you realize.” 

“That is exactly why I must go,” Edelgard nodded. “We have to stay ahead of my uncle, or at least keep pace with what he knows.” 

“My lady…” Hubert said and then trailed off. He bit his bottom lip briefly, an oddly nervous motion on his usually hardened face. 

“Speak freely, Hubert,” she said. “Please.”

“I am… concerned,” he finally said. “I have devoted considerable resources to observing those who slither in the dark and I have been able to find very little. From deduction alone, however, I believe there is cause for worry. Your uncle has told you, I recall, that you are central to the success of their plans.” 

“My uncle has limited resources without my cooperation,” Edelgard said, feeling her jaw tighten. “While I am aware of the risk, that he might be able to destroy me should I refuse to cooperate, he would never accomplish his goals without me.” 

“I am no longer sure if that is the case,” Hubert said. Almost impulsively, he reached out and took one of her hands. His glove was still stained with blood from the battle in the tomb. “You bear the Crest of Flames and you hold the key to the Adrestian Empire. But the Ashen Demon wields the Sword of the Creator, shares your Crest, and has unknown abilities beyond that related to the progenitor god. If Lord Arundel seeks a leader for his cause, he now possesses two. I implore you to be cautious, to not consider yourself expendable. You are perhaps the only living person who truly understands the Agarthan objective.” 

Edelgard looked at him for a moment. His hand was warm against hers. She wanted to scream. 

She had once had ten siblings. Only she remained. And if she was but the disposable prototype to an even grander creation? No. She would not accept that. If her uncle ( _ the man who was not her uncle, who knew how long he had not been her uncle _ ) wanted the Imperial army, he needed  _ her _ . 

“You are right to be cautious,” she said, pulling her hand back. “Which is why we must devise our strategies now to neutralize the Ashen Demon once the war is over. But I will not work to blunt my sword before I swing it.” 

Hubert nodded silently, seeming aware that he had overstepped. 

“Lord Arundel, I believe, is waiting for you,” he said as he bowed and retreated from the tent. “On the hilltop, by the old watchtower.” 

Edelgard waited for him to leave before she began to pace again. 

The watchtower on the hill looked down into vale below Garreg Mach, the monastery gleaming faintly across the wide gulf. Lord Arundel waited at the tower’s base, looking out over the vista. And he had brought company. 

“Tomas,” she nodded, greeting the gentle-faced older man by his alias as her uncle’s folk always preferred. “You look well. After your encounter with Jeralt at Remire village, we feared you would be lost.” 

“A minor injury,” he replied with a courteous tilt of his head. To imagine the twisted creature that lurked beneath this face made her stomach churn. “But I have the little angel’s blood to heal me quickly now.” 

“Tomas has managed a successful implantation of all the Crest Stones you were able to recover from the Holy Tomb,” Lord Arundel said. “Your army will be unstoppable.” 

“Will you be sending your mercenary, then, uncle?” Edelgard asked, keeping her voice as casual and emotionless as she could. “Or is he too valuable to be deployed?” 

“The Ashen Demon will be at your side, Emperor,” Lord Arundel nodded, his voice silky and utterly respectful. “He will slay the cruel beast at the head of the Church while you dismantle its limbs.”

“And after our victory?” Edelgard pressed him. “Will he remain at my command or do you intend to send him elsewhere?” 

“Very curious about our little project,” Tomas chuckled at that. “Why is that, my dear?” 

“Don’t play,” Edelgard commanded. Her uncle knew not to with her anymore, but Tomas ( _ hiding beneath Tomas that shriveled misshapen thing a web of veins and black _ ) was apparently unfamiliar. “You sent him to the holy tomb. You clearly didn’t mind that I knew of Rhea’s connection to him. He is Jeralt’s child, correct?” 

“After your victory,” Lord Arundel answered her first question instead, “we will strike down the fortresses of the church. There is no need for Agartha to hide in the shadows anymore once Rhea is gone. Anywhere that resists, the corruption we developed in Remire will cripple. The Ashen Demon will only be required to sweep away the remains.” 

“And what of the Imperial army?” Edelgard asked. “Will command be left in my hands alone or do you intend to use our power further?” 

“Your power will be but a fraction of what we will imbue in you after our victory here,” Lord Arundel said with a smile. It was a look he only rarely got, only ever in front of her. It was so cold and so ancient and so terrifying, he didn’t even need to show her his true face beneath. “We have been shackled for centuries, but in your Empire, Agartha will rise beyond even the heights of our ancestors. The limits of humanity will be expanded and there will be such strength in us that there will be no more need for Gods.” 

In my Empire, Edelgard thought, I will leave your corpses out on spikes to putrefy in the heat of summer. 

“You know I am resolved to fight for such a cause,” Edelgard said instead. “Will any of our other allies be joining us here?” 

“We have returned our agent Monica to her family in the Empire for the time being. Her rash actions nearly cost us the secrecy we must keep around our physical forms,” Lord Arundel said, returning to the persona of the decorous nobleman with ease. “Cornelia has proven herself far more trustworthy with her success in the Kingdom. She will secure Fhirdiad for your capture.”

“Very well,” Edelgard said. “You know it will be difficult to explain to my army why they fight alongside those they think to be monsters. Is your mercenary prepared to behave?” 

“Ask him yourself,” Tomas said with a wheezy laugh. “Byleth?” 

As he called out, Edelgard heard the soft sound of someone landing on the grass. He had been at the top of the tower, she realized, with a jolt of cold fear in her gut. She hadn’t even noticed. 

The Ashen Demon approached them. Edelgard looked him in the eyes. He was not so frightening up close, she thought. The bleached hair, the colorless eyes that showed only the dull pink of his blood, these were traits she saw in her own mirror. And yes, he kept his emotions well in check, but so did she. 

“Say hello to her majesty the emperor, Byleth,” Tomas said, his tone proud and almost paternal. Byleth nodded wordlessly. She could not read him. Perhaps he hated his captors as much as she did.

“Byleth Eisner, is that correct?” Edelgard asked instead. “You are Jeralt Eisner’s child.”

“Correct,” he said. 

“You father has been imprisoned by the church,” Edelgard said, “would it please you to release him now?” 

“I do not know,” Byleth replied. She could get nothing from him. He didn’t even seem bored with the conversation just… obedient. 

“Byleth finds emotions to be somewhat distant,” Tomas explained. “He has never cried, never screamed, never shouted. It makes him an excellent subject for our work. Perhaps he will tell you why?”

Edelgard looked expectantly at the mercenary. 

“I am asleep,” Byleth responded. “And now, I am dreaming.” 

Edelgard had no words for that. She looked at her uncle, knowing her expression would betray her discomfort. 

Arundel laughed lightly.

“He is remarkably compliant, no?” 

Edelgard herself did not sleep much that night. 

When dawn broke, she was dozing. In the pale light, she fastened on her armor. When she spoke to her soldiers, she told them they were fighting to end corruption. Which was true. They were fighting to overthrow one corrupt tyrant in favor of another. 

The monastery had good natural defenses. The high walls and the difficult mountainous terrain made a direct assault difficult and neutralized some of the advantage their numbers gave them. But the Church’s forces were too small, the attack too sudden to send for reinforcements. They would not have enough men to guard every gate and wall, to utilize all of their artillery. 

And if they faced the Immaculate One herself? Well, that was why Byleth walked beside her, right? 

Finally, she thought with bitter irony, a companion on her lonely path. 

When they entered the town below the monastery, the Church’s soldiers fought alongside the former students. Edelgard saw the discomfort on Dorothea’s face, the tears in Petra’s eyes, and even Caspar’s shaking hands. Ferdinand had apparently recovered himself slightly after his moment of indecision at the holy tomb, but he was unreliable as well. 

Across the slope, Edelgard saw trouble for her as well. Dimirti was here. She was confidant in her skills to defeat her other former classmates, but not Dimitri. The image of his hands cracking through that soldier’s head like an eggshell was burned into her memory. 

“Show no mercy to these traitors!” she heard Seteth’s voice calling distantly. There was the crack of artillery being fired. Massive ballista bolts arced over their heads. She heard the sounds of Hubert behind her, laughing darkly as runes began to swirl around him. 

Beside her, the mercenary looked only towards the parapet and the single figure overseeing the field.

“Forward!” Edelgard commanded.

She fought her way up the center towards Seteth first. Ladislava nearly lost the left flank to Gilbert, but Lorenz caught him with a blast of roaring flame and forced a retreat. Petra managed to recapture one of the ballistas with Ashe, who took aim at Flayn. He might have been the only one bold enough to do it, she thought. 

When Flayn was injured, Seteth pulled her back at once and she heard him call for an evacuation. He must realize he was losing, now. They would pull back into the monastery walls and attempt to flee, which she had expected. 

As long as she could ensure that Rhea did not escape with them, she would consider it a success. The victory needed to be symbolic rather than tactical. 

Edelgard was almost to the steps of the entrance hall, watching her former classmates already running to barricade themselves back inside, when something hit her from the side so hard that she was thrown to the ground. 

For a moment, all was confusion. She felt hot breath on her face, fingers grasping her arms so hard that her armor dented painfully inward, the trembling point of a lance being pressed towards her throat. Dimitri had found her. 

Her axe was still clutched in her hand, but he had her shoulder pinned. As she struggled against him, she felt the strength of her Crest awaken, burning in her veins with such intensity that she tasted bitter metal on her tongue. She forced his arm back from her throat, drawing a sharp pained growl from him in response. 

With the other arm, she let the axe go and instead pulled her hand in towards the knife she kept sheathed at her belt. The maneuver was unexpected enough that she managed to escape his grasp just long enough to jab the short blade up and through the plates on his chest. 

He gasped slightly as she pulled the blade free. She felt the heat of his blood now splattering her chest plate, but he didn’t withdraw. Instead, he gave up his grip on her arm and wrapped one hand around her throat.

For a moment, she looked up at him and met his eyes. They were as resolute as her own. He would let her gut him on the off chance of crushing her windpipe in the process. 

And then a silver light enveloped him, shimmering around him with tendrils of bright white, and he vanished. Edelgard coughed, gasping for breath as the pressure around her throat vanished and looking wildly around to understand what had happened. 

She heard his scream of fury before her eyes found him. Flayn was leaning against the gate, her side already soaked in blood from her own wounds, with one hand slipping from his shoulder. She had rescued him, pulling him back to safety with white magic. 

“My lady!” Hubert’s voice shouted from somewhere distant. Through the smoke she looked up, eyes watering as she finally managed to draw a breath again. Hubert limped towards her. His nose was bleeding. 

She stood without his help, holding up a hand to show she was alright. 

“They are preparing to retreat into the walls,” she rasped, “press our advantage before we lose Rhea. Bring in the reserve troops.” 

Hubert nodded silently and then turned to call out orders to the battalions behind him. Men rushed around her towards the gate. Edelgard stood amidst the army, breathing heavily. 

A roar split the air that stopped the rush. Even her Imperial soldiers still froze with terror at the sound of the Immaculate One. 

Edelgard raised her eyes to the parapet. Rhea looked out over them, her skin beginning to shine as though there was something burning inside of her. The light arched out over her back, down her fingers as they lengthened into claws. The roar resonated deeper, as her chest cavity expanded. 

And then it abruptly stopped.

Something emerged from her breast bone. Something glowing with orange light. 

The white glow faded. Rhea gasped, her breath rattled, wordless. And then the Sword of the Creator was jerked back through her chest and she fell forward, body pitching over the rampart. 

It landed on the steps of the monastery. Crumpled, white dress stained with blood, face partially crushed from the fall. The Immaculate One’s final flight. 

Thus always to false saints. 

As the soldiers surged forward again with a cry of encouragement, Edelgard looked up to see the Ashen Demon standing there, looking down at her. Her army could finish the battle now without her. The gate had fallen and the Church’s soldiers were in full retreat. This needed tending to more. 

She walked heavily as she climbed the stairs to find him, her throat still painful as bruises blossomed across it. 

Byleth had remained standing on the rampart, his eyes now fixed on the sky above rather than down at the body of his enemy. 

When she joined him at the edge of the wall, he made no sign of surprise. She followed his gaze up rather than looking out over the burning remains of Garreg Mach.

Up in the sky, white stars were streaking down around them. No, not stars. They fell too low on the horizon. 

“You have accomplished your task,” Edelgard broke the silence. “Do you wish the freedom to leave?” 

Slowly, he turned his head to look at her. 

“Why would I wish to leave?” he asked without a hint of sarcasm or anger. 

“Do you wish for anything?” Edelgard corrected her question. What had been done to this strange wreckage of a person? And had it been Tomas alone who had carried it out, or that broken mess of a woman on the steps below? 

“I wish to keep dreaming,” Byleth said after a few moments. “And to never stop.” 

Edelgard paused, uncertain what she had to fulfill such a request. 

“At this point in the dream,” Byleth spoke again, startling her slightly with his sudden talkativeness. He turned to face her. “At this point, you die. I grab you from behind, run the sword through your back. You try to grab the blade before the life drains out of you and it lights up in your hand as well. So, I need to return back to the beginning.” 

“What are you-?” Edelgard began, taking a few steps back. Her uncle, she realized as her heart began to pound. Hubert had been right to caution her. “Your masters still need me.” 

“No, no,” Byleth said without blinking. “You perish in the battle. There is no other heir. Only the one chosen of the Goddess can rise to take your place, the true faith to conquer the false. They name me the King of Liberation in Enbarr. This time, you charge me first. Right here. I catch you through the throat this time, but you have that dagger hidden in your hand… again.” 

Edelgard backed up another few steps, her fingers slipped away from the blooded dagger she had been grasping for. This could not be happening. He was speaking of plans she hadn’t even made yet. 

“Ah, one of these dreams hurts you the most,” Byleth observed, still not moving towards her. “You cry out. Hubert comes. He is going to take you away, but you forget that this sword can grow in my hand. It rips through the front of him and you scream as he holds his organ cavity in with one hand and tries to warp you to safety with the other. You throw your axe at my left shoulder, and while it might do, I would miss the arm. Again.” 

The falling stars were growing brighter around them, filling the sky as they plummeted around the monastery on every side. The ground shook. 

“Stop this,” Edelgard tried to say through her panic. “You don’t have to serve them any longer. With the sword, you can forge your own path.” 

“I have,” Byleth replied, finally raising the sword and pointing it slowly at her. “Many times. I am intrigued by this one.” 

He was seeing through time. Somehow, she understood this without knowing why. His path was not the straight and unswerving course that lay before her, it branched out in infinite directions. Which meant that no matter what she did, he would be prepared. 

When your enemy has accounted for every variable, she thought, there is no victory. Even destinies break against such a barrier. So there was only one option remaining to her. 

Edelgard looked up and saw his eyes widen for just a split second. And then she stepped backwards and off of the monastery walls. 

She fell and darkness reached up to close around her. Another falling star swallowed by the hungry earth. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time skip is here! The plot will henceforth diverge more dramatically from canon so prepare for strangeness. I am really happy with this chapter and with the role Edelgard gets to play. We will return five years in the future with the blunt and rational voice of Shamir to explain what has happened. 
> 
> Thank you endlessly for your comments! Your support makes the Crest Stone I use in place of a human heart glow with happiness.


	14. Reunion at Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shamir returns to Garreg Mach in the fifth year of Agarthan ascendancy. Ash falls, the world burns, and smoke rises when old comrades meet again.

**Imperial Year 1185**

**Restored Era of Agarthan Salvation Year 3066**

Ashfall from Ailell again. 

It made the day grey, perpetual twilight. She was living on the last of her rations, a few strips of venison dried from a carcass she’d found already torn apart by the roving packs of demonic beasts that now dominated the mountains. The last time she’d met another person, she’d heard news that the plague was spreading in Gloucester territory again, that men were eating each other’s flesh. The local powers there had already pledged to Agartha, so the outbreak must be a controlled weakening rather than a direct attack. 

And she was still in Fódlan. She wasn’t even supposed to still be in  _ fucking _ Fódlan.

But, Shamir thought, there was no way back to Dagda now, not even for a person of her skill set. The ports of Enbarr had closed since the The Reborn King of Liberation settled there. Fodlan’s Fangs were a scorched wasteland now. Javelins of light had turned the once populous towns into skeletal ruins, inhabited only by plague-maddened killers and increasingly desperate bandits. 

The Kingdom was even worse. After the regent’s death, a court mage named Cornelia had handed Faerghus over to the Agarthans. Thales the Arisen ruled in Fhirdiad while Prince Dimitri had apparently been executed. The northeastern territories still resisted, which meant they were a firestorm of death and suffering. 

She had even considered trying Derdriu, just to get on a boat to somewhere, but she’d heard word that Solon the Savior of All had relocated there to counteract the Almyran Resistance. There were no boats, not anywhere. Right now, there was no world anymore to need boats. 

Shamir was a survivor. 

She had survived the war when her partner had fallen. She had survived her wounds under the church’s care. It only made sense that she would survive until the bitter end of humanity. 

The ash fell thicker. Shamir kept walking. She pulled a scarf up to cover the bottom of her face to avoid breathing it in. The mountain pass appeared deserted, but she still kept her steps quiet. Stick to the shadows, travel at dawn and dusk to avoid the beasts and the people, drink water only after boiling it, don’t waste your arrows on game if you can avoid it, stay away from large groups, and do not even think about picking a fight with an Agarthan. 

She could have settled by this point, probably. Chosen some backwater village the war had mostly spared and tried to eke out what was left of her life. There were places in the Empire where she could have sworn loyalty to the Agarthans and even been rewarded for her talents. 

She knew she was already losing herself, that each day of solitude and suffering brought her closer to an increasingly tempting edge. She could give in. 

But her life’s history was clear: she had one flaw as a mercenary. She did not know how to pick her battles. 

Finally, through the grey curtain of ash and pre-dawn light, she saw her destination. 

The ruins of the monastery still sat atop the peaks, the remains of the old towns and forests sweeping down into the vales surrounding it. The stone was stained black from the smoke of the fires that had raged their five years before, but other than that, it appeared quiet, untouched, oddly peaceful. 

It was strange, Shamir thought, that the Agarthans had never set up one of their new cities here. That was why she had come, after all. There was at least a slim chance that Rhea’s ancient wards were still keeping the Agarthans out. 

She’d seen the new capital in Enbarr briefly, but enough to know what their new overlords preferred. Towers of metal had jutted up between the old stone of the capital. Even by night, the city had been lit with a pale blue that seemed to seep out through the lines snaking over their new constructions. Glowing fences that hummed with energy had kept districts separated and the populace docile. Patrolling iron golems made the streets tremble in their wake. 

In the end, she’d left the city too quickly to learn much. Strangers were often the first to be taken to the labs. And she’d been chasing a foolish fantasy anyway. The Court of Smoke was nothing but a folktale whispered by rustics to keep them believing that any resistance was still possible in the former Adrestian Empire. 

Even remembering the year she’d spent combing the remains of the Empire for the Court of Smoke brought a flush of shame to her face. Shamir was a survivor. She did not let her passions rule her. 

But the idea of a network of spies, watching the Agarthans and waiting for an opportunity to strike them back, had been too tantalizing even for her usually stone heart. She’d chased stories and campfire songs for a full wasted year, hoping dangerously that they would be real. She hadn’t fought for a cause in a long time. Why had she spent so long searching for one, then? 

The sun was on the verge of the horizon as she hiked up the last path to Garreg Mach. The trees were skeletal, even the evergreens. Too little sun, and burning acid in the rain ever since the javelins had reopened Ailell. She needed to find shelter to sleep, but the old buildings were too risky. 

There had been a reasonably controlled civillian populace Rhea had allowed to operate beneath the monastery five years ago, but she didn’t want to take her chances on trusting that they were still tolerant of the church. She could sleep in the woods for a few hours to get her strength back before checking the fields for any crops that might still be growing untended. 

But first, reconnaissance. She couldn’t risk even a few hours of unconsciousness without a careful idea of what might stumble across her camp. 

The nearest village to the monastery gates appeared abandoned. A few skeletons in the houses, but already picked over by thieves. A few fresher bodies as well. Some were still pungent enough to worry her. 

One man was in a few pieces, likely killed by a beast, but she found a Huntsman’s Eye charm around what remained of his neck. Another folktale, although this one not of secret rebellion. The Huntsman preyed on men and Agarthan alike, the story said, and once he had sighted you, he would follow you forever unless you wore his charm.  _ Both man and beast are sure to die, if sighted by the huntsman’s eye.  _ She’d heard brigands on the road singing the tale. 

Once she had cleared the village of any living creature outside of the scavenging rats and rangey feral dogs, she approached the monastery itself. The doors of the gates had been torn out by the Imperial army and the ground around them was still scorched from the five year old battle. 

Shamir had almost expected to find the skeletal remains of Rhea still lying crumpled on the steps, but they were gone. 

Once she was past the walls, the monastery was eerily quiet. The old fishing pond was grey and scummy now, the water probably unfit for drinking even if she boiled it. Shamir did a sweep of the dormitories and found them unusually intact. Although covered in thick dust, she found the student’s quarters as they had been five years before. 

A book lay open, a half completed assignment beside it. A quill pen still sitting in the gummy residue of an open inkwell. The dry stems of flowers in a vase that crumbled as Shamir passed by. A letter slid beneath a door, unopened. 

The other monastery buildings showed some signs of habitation, although it was difficult to tell how recent. Some of the old classroom furniture had been dragged out and chopped into pieces, probably for firewood. There was a dry splatter of blood on the wall of the training grounds. The larder and pantry had been cleared and there was nothing left on the shelves to rot. 

Which left the cathedral. Shamir didn’t like having to cross the bridge. She knew of a few alternative escapes, but they might already be sealed. 

The old drawbridge gate was rusted closed, but Shamir preferred to enter from the western door. Less noise. As she prowled the edges of the building, she could see that the back wall had fallen in. At least that would allow for an easy escape. 

As she stepped into the cathedral, the pale grey light of nearing dawn illuminated the cold stone nave. The stained glass lay in shattered powder on the floor. Shamir pressed her back to one of the pillars and peered around to try to get a vantage point on the room. 

Very softly, she heard a boot move on some of the broken glass. 

Immediately, she went still. Not frozen, her hand was on her dagger and ready to move, but she quieted until even her breathing was nearly silent. She heard it again. It was faint, someone was clearly trying to move quietly, but it was clear. 

Slowly, Shamir shifted her head until she had an angle on the direction of the sound. It was coming from the other side of the room, behind the eastern pillars. She craned her neck, tightening her muscles in case she needed to run. 

It was a young man. He was moving slowly, an arrow nocked to a bow he held already drawn. His hair was dark brown, a mess of loose waves bound with a length of fabric, and she could see the shadow of a beard at his jawline. His clothes were distinctive. His belt was ragged, but it was clearly a finely woven Almyran silk. 

And most impossibly of all, Shamir recognized him. It was Claude von Reigan, one-time heir to the Leicester Alliance, presumed dead after the Remire plague had decimated Reigan territory. 

He crept forward a few more paces and then stopped, raising the partially drawn bowstring slightly. He was looking towards the collapsed wall. He must, Shamir realized, have some reason for moving as cautiously as her. 

She shifted to the other side of her pillar and glanced towards the front of the cathedral. For a moment, even her well-trained eyes did not notice him. He was so still. Ash had settled on his shoulders which meant that he probably hadn’t moved in hours. But there was no mistaking him. 

Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of Faerghus was sitting on the pile of rubble. He held a bloodied lance in one hand, leaning on it slightly as though weary. His armor was bloodied as well, relatively fresh by the wet shine of it. His hair had grown long, a few lank strands of pale blonde falling over his face. 

As Shamir watched, Claude slid out of the shadows and into the center aisle of the cathedral. The bow in his hands was not yet aimed, but ready at a moment’s notice. 

“Well, this is a little awkward,” Claude spoke and his voice echoed out as though he’d shouted in the silent room. “Here for the reunion?” 

Dimitri raised his head very slowly. As he did, Shamir suppressed the urge to gasp. One of his eyes was gone, covered by a dark patch instead. The remaining eye, blue and burning, looked up to meet with Claude’s. 

She might need to reassesses her previous stance on Fodlan’s superstitious, she realized. Perhaps the brigands and bandits really had been hunted by something. 

“I had never thought… that you of all people… would be haunting me as well,” Dimitri spoke slowly, his voice roughened by the ashfall. His single eye blinked a few times, as though he was trying to clear his vision of something. Mad, Shamir decided quickly. He was trying to determine if Claude was real or not. She’d seen men with battle shock before. She’d never seen one manage to hide it for four years. 

Dangerously reckless then, if Claude had come alone. She had never known the heir of the Leicester Alliance to be reckless. 

As soon as she had thought it, she heard the soft creak of another string tightening. An arrow gleamed from somewhere in the choir loft. She caught the shine of metal just outside of the main cathedral door. Claude had definitely not come alone. 

“Didn’t expect to find you here, honestly,” Claude said, his casual tone belied by his tense fingers on the arrow. “We just came for a bit of treasure hunting; I had no desire to make trouble with you. News of your death seems to be a bit exaggerated.” 

“Not by much,” Dimitri replied. He sounded hollow. Perhaps exhausted. Shamir was beginning to suspect that much of the blood that coated his armor was his own. 

Claude whistled and more figures stepped into the cathedral. Ignatz was up in the choir loft while Leonie and Hilda appeared around the corner of the stairs. A faint shimmer split the air and Lysithea and Raphael materialized in the back corner, Lysithea looking wasted beyond her years and was half-leaning on Raphael for support. All of them had sun-weathered faces and worn traveller’s clothes, much of it Almyran linen, gone grey with ash. 

Dimitri’s hand tightened slightly on the lance. 

“If the Agarthans sent you to kill me,” he said in a hoarse growl, “you’re going to find it more difficult that it seems.” 

“We do not work with Agarthans,” Claude said, his casual voice suddenly darkening. But then he shook it off and his next words were almost cheerful. “Besides, friend, you don’t seem like you’re much in fighting shape. Marianne?” 

Another shadow stepped out from behind a pillar. She walked silently, lighter than even Claude had managed. Shamir noted that Dimitri’s eye widened strangely when he saw Marianne. She looked gaunt and dusty like the rest of them, but now leanly muscled and with a steely resolve in her gaze she had once kept averted to the ground. 

“Why are you doing this?” Dimitri asked before Marianne could approach him. 

“You’ve been hunting Agarthans as well, am I right?” Claude said. “I prefer having friends to having enemies. Not enough of us left to bother fighting each other. Division is death these days, right?” 

“I’m glad to hear you say that.”

This time, Shamir did flinch. 

How many people were in this cathedral and how the hell had she not spotted so many of them? The voice had been female, coming from the side chapel where the entrance to the Holy Mausoleum had once been. 

Everyone in the room had turned to stare at the figure standing in the doorway. This one was almost too much to be believed. 

Ghosts, dreams, and legends, Shamir thought. They appeared to be more real than usual now. 

Edelgard von Hresvelg, former Emperor of Adrestia, was standing in the doorway. She had armor on, notably a rigidly tightened breastplate that held her posture firm and straight. Her silver-white hair was coiled around her head now and her lips and eyes were darkened nearly black with painted charcoal. In her hand, she had a short wooden cane. 

“You-” Dimitri’s venomous whisper immediately cut through the silence. 

“Yes,” Edelgard interrupted before he could say more. “Another ghost of your past. No need to try to kill me again.” 

Claude did raise the bow this time, aiming it directly at Edelgard without hesitation. 

“Bad form to show up today,” he said with a dark laugh. “Not sure you get an invite to the reunion if you destroy the school.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve been here for years now,” Edelgard replied with a bitter smile. “Perhaps you should have knocked.” 

“What do they have you working on, then, traitor?” Lysithea unexpectedly spoke. She was very pale and her lips were dry and bleeding in places. “Or is this just the Agarthan scrap heap now?” 

Edelgard took a few steps forward into the cathedral. She walked stiffly, her back held totally straight by her armor. Old injury, Shamir judged. Probably a fractured spine if she had to guess. 

“As you can clearly see, the Agarthans have no use for me anymore,” Edelgard said sharply. “If you want an apology, take it, but the words will not restore your dead. I made the best choice available to me. More people live in Adrestia today than in the rest of Fodlan because of me, even if they live in a prison. I offered you all the same option. If I miscalculated the strength of the Agarthans, I did it no more grievously than the rest of you.” 

Dimitri slowly began to push himself to his feet. One hand was wrapped around his stomach, pressing hard into his side where he must be wounded. 

“You still owe me your head,” he rasped, although he swayed where he stood. “A fair trade, I think, for everyone you’ve taken from me.” 

“Wait a few more minutes, then” Edelgard said without fear. “Your people will be here soon enough. They picked your trail up in Charon territory a few weeks ago. It is pitiable. I doubt they realize what sort of king they’ve been chasing all these years.” 

“I’m getting a little tired of standing here while you two try to tear each other apart again,” Claude interjected. “Let’s just speed things along, shall we? Here’s the plan: Edelgard tells us why she’s here and then we decide if she’s worth more alive than dead.” 

Dimitri frowned and then silently nodded. 

“I’ve been here for three years now,” Edelgard said, looking only at Claude. “After the monastery fell, I had an unfortunate encounter with the Ashen Demon that left me somewhat immobile. Nevertheless, I found that I still had some surviving friends in Bergliez territory. There are many yet living in the Empire who favor the old dynasty over the new, although they cannot say so publicly. When the risk of my presence in the Empire became too great, I relocated my base of operations here.”

“Agarthan lies,” Dimitri growled in interruption, sliding a few steps down the pile of rubble towards her. “She serves them. Always has.” 

Edelgard ignored him and kept her focus on Claude instead. ”The Agarthans want me dead, Claude, and I doubt you would wish to be of service to them. There is a lot that I know that they wish I didn’t. And there is a lot I have learned in five years that might interest you as well. As you said yourself, I prefer to have friends over enemies. There aren’t enough of us willing to fight back left alive to kill each other over irrelevant past conflicts. So lower that ridiculous arrow.” 

“How are we to trust that you won’t turn us over to them? A bit of immunity for yourself, maybe?” Claude asked, keeping his bow raised at her. “You’ve collaborated so successfully before, as you said, to save your people.” 

“I don’t know, Claude?” Edelgard said with a brutal laugh. “Why might I be uninterested in such a bargain?” 

Shamir felt a soft shift in the darkness behind her. She knew what it was immediately. Who it most likely was.  Where the emperor stood, she cast her shadow.

If Shamir moved fast, she could likely run now and escape. The former students would be distracted enough with one another. She could make it to the woods, push herself through another day without sleep, and get out. Survive again. 

But it had been a long time since she’d fought for a cause. Even a legend, a ghost story, a dream. 

“You’re the head of the Court of Smoke,” Shamir said, stepping out from behind the pillar. As soon as she did, she felt Hubert behind her. Something needle-sharp pressed into the side of her neck. 

“Think carefully,” his voice came quietly in her ear. 

Shamir was clearly not thinking carefully right now. She pulled the dagger from its sheath and let it clatter on the ground before putting her hands over her head. 

“I tried to find you for a while,” Shamir said, addressing Edelgard even as she heard Ignatz and Leonie pivoting to aim arrows at her. “Nothing but whispers. That must mean you’re good.” 

“The Millenium Festival does seem to exert a pull on you people,” Hubert said coldly, still invisible over her shoulder. “Who are you with?” 

“Not with the Almyran Resistance, although I’ve heard the rumors,” Shamir said, nodding deliberately towards Claude. “And definitely not with the Huntsman of Faerghus, although I’ve seen his work outside. So I suppose, I’m with you, then. If you can afford me.” 

As she said it, dawn broke over the cathedral at last. 

The sun passed over the edges of the mountains and the empty windows flooded with the pink glow of daylight. At the same time, Shamir heard the sound of someone wrenching the iron gate from its rusted hinges outside. 

As predicted, Dimitri’s people had finally come, although they were either idiots or cared nothing for stealth.  When they entered the cathedral and she saw Catherine at the head of their party, she understood. 

The remains of the defiant nobility of Faerghus stood in the doorway, looking like they’d just climbed out of hell itself. They were not just dusted with ash, their clothing was scalded and eaten away in patches. 

A shiny red burn snaked up Ingrid’s arm and Sylvain’s handsome face was now marred with a scar that cleaved down the center of it. Felix had an alarming streak of white at the front of his hair. Mercedes and Annette were less visibly damaged, although Shamir noted with alarm that Annette had the broken remains of an Agartha tracker still implanted on the side of her neck. 

The light of dawn hit each of their faces as they all stared wordlessly at one another. Claude and his resistance, torn over where to take aim. Dimitri, slumping with a frustrated exhalation to his knees at last. Edelgard and the Court of Smoke now emerging at last from the shadows. And the battered remains of the Blue Lions, crawling from the edge of death in hopes of their savior king returning at last. 

And her. The mercenary. The spy. The survivor. 

The reunion would either kill them all in the next few seconds, or give Fódlan its best, last chance at survival. 

She would take the gamble.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time skip AKA let the apocalyptic dystopia Fódlan begin! It's a fun thought experiment to imagine the weird magi-tech of Shambhala spreading everywhere. Next time, prepare for petty squabbling, ideological conflict, and some stabbing as Claude desperately tries to keep this dumpster fire together! 
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments! Future comments will rally my speed, strength, and resistance as well as giving all adjacent allies an avoid +20 bonus.


	15. Three Rulers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude holds it all together as the last pockets of resistance converge at Garreg Mach. Unfortunately, the Agarthans aren't far behind.

Once upon a time, in a far away land, there was a little boy called Khalid who believed he was free. Not the wisest assumption, poor Khalid. He had no idea that he was a prince, and to make matters worse, he was a prince twice-over. 

A prince, he realized pretty early on, was a person who gets to wear a special hat, and in exchange, everyone hates him. And to be a prince of two countries? Twice the hats, twice the hatred. 

Khalid had it pretty lucky, though, compared to Claude. Much better to be one prince with two lands than to have one land with three princes. 

In the weeks since he had returned to Garreg Mach, Claude had been busy. They had to supply the monastery for three times the number of people it had formerly supported now that his soldiers and the ragged remains of the Kingdom army were trickling in to join them. 

The land might be able to provide food for a time, although who knew about winter, but they were badly lacking in usable weapons, medical supplies, beasts of burden, and even clothing. And then there were the monastery defenses, which were still in shambles. They had a glut of nobles who could swing a sword and almost no carpenters who could hang a door. 

And of course, there was the trouble of the uneasy truce between the three factions that now existed at Garreg Mach. He honestly couldn’t even call them an alliance, really, more like a group of people who were tolerant enough not to kill each other yet. 

Well, _most_ of them were trying not to kill each other. 

“You stabbed him,” Claude said bluntly, trying not to visibly grit his teeth. “Again.” 

“I did,” Hubert replied with a faint smile. 

“I explicitly told you last time to stop stabbing him,” Claude said, “because if you hit him in the arm again, he’s going to have more scar tissue than he has movable shoulder.” 

“I have agreed to stop stabbing him when he stops threatening Lady Edelgard’s life,” Hubert said with indifference. 

They stood a few paces outside of the infirmary. Claude was tired and sweat was gathering on his forehead since he’d had to jog all the way from where he had been trying to figure out how to efficiently build wyvern paddocks in the burned remains of the stables. 

“Did he actually attack her?” Claude insisted. “Or did he just say something menacing about cutting off her head?” 

“There was a dispute over one of our agents returning from Bergliez territory. It grew heated. His behavior became erratic and I had doubts about his control,” Hubert sighed. “And then I stabbed him. He’ll wake soon enough. The toxin is not that potent.”

“And did anyone present even  _ consider _ trying to de-escalate the dispute with something other than a poisoned knife?” Claude asked. Hubert merely smirked and then shrugged. “If it happens again…” 

“What will you do, Claude?” Hubert said with a satisfied quirk of his head. “Withdraw your support? Run back across Fódlan’s Throat and leave us to our fate?” 

Yes probably, Claude thought bitterly. If he did, he might make it to the end of his days in peace. But he wasn’t foolish enough to believe the Agarthans would stop once they burned Fódlan to the ground. He might delay the inevitable, but a single range of mountains wouldn’t keep Almyra safe for long. 

“If it happens again,” Claude warned, “I will slip something in your drink that will make you  _ wish _ I’d run back to Almyra.” 

With that, he turned and stalked back down the stairs. 

When he’d first taken the Golden Deer to Almyra with him five years earlier, he’d been worried there would be conflict. Hilda had always been vocal about her disdain for his people and Lysithea was quick to anger over being lied to. But after a few months of regular food and a still functional society, everyone had gotten along. 

This, Claude thought sullenly, was some cosmic joke by the Goddess herself. He’d spent his whole life with a gnawing fear of one side of his heritage or the other rejecting him. Now here he was again, despised by the Kingdom as a collaborator and despised by the Empire for his indecision. 

He could appreciate a healthy dose of irony, but this was a lot to take. 

Outside, the monastery grounds were swarming with activity. Raphael was leading a group of men rebuilding gaps in the walls while Lysithea sat in a shaded chair, occasionally blowing the debris too large to move into powder with a spell. Hilda was somewhere in the entrance hall, pouting and trying to teach soldiers how to mend their own boots, while Ignatz was rushing around with a tally list of everything they were short on. 

Which was basically everything. 

“Claude!” a woman yelled from somewhere behind him and he rolled his eyes to the heavens before turning around with a smile plastered on. It was Catherine. She had chips of bark caught in her hair and her fingers were blistered from where she’d been dragging in lumber to work on patching the broken doors. 

“Catherine!” Claude greeted her with equal volume. “I’d love to talk, but I’m actually on my way back to the stables-” 

“Did Hubert stab Dimitri again?” Catherine asked, folding her arms. 

“Only very slightly,” Claude sighed, “he’ll be up shortly, I’m sure. Marianne is tending to him.” 

“I’m going to send for Mercedes,” Catherine said with a scowl. “He ought to be with one of his own.” 

“I think Mercedes is a little busy right now running the entire kitchen,” Claude said, no longer able to suppress the hostility in his smile. “Marianne knows what she’s doing, I swear. Back when you knew her, she was a bit shy, but there’s nothing like barely evading death for five years to raise your confidence.” 

“Back when I knew her...” Catherine mused, a rye smile of her own twisting at the side of her mouth. “Sit with me for a minute, would you?” 

She gestured to a spot on the steps and then pulled out a canteen Claude was absolutely sure did not contain water. He sighed and sat beside her. The stables would have to wait for another day. The wyverns hadn’t eaten each other yet tied up in the greenhouse. 

“Five years can really change a person,” Catherine said once she’d wiped her mouth and offered him the canteen. He declined after a whiff of how strong the stuff was. “You’ve changed, clearly. Not quite so cocky for one thing. You want to know how other people have changed?” 

“I think you’re going to tell me, regardless,” Claude replied. Catherine smiled without a hint of friendliness. 

“Let’s take Sylvain for example. Used to be quite the charmer. Then half of his territory killed each other in the first plague. Took us a while to figure out how it spread. Once they’d stopped drinking the contaminated water, though, there weren’t many left alive in Gautier lands. He got that pretty face messed up by one of his own soldiers before they could put the poor bastard down,” Catherine said, her tone conversational despite her furious eyes. 

“Or Felix, maybe. Fraldarius territory was spared the worst of the first wave because his father had the foresight to withdraw into the frozen tundra after the javelins of light fell. Spent a few years melting ice to drink and picking off Agarthans where they could. Until he got himself captured in an ambush, turned in by his own men, and taken to the labs so they could pull the Crest out of his veins.” 

“Sounds unpleasant,” Claude quipped.

“Absolutely,” Catherine said, “but just imagine what it was like for poor Annette. She’d been in the labs for years, involuntarily assisting them ever since her dear old father got them both captured in a ill-advised sabotage of an arcane reactor in Fhirdiad. She only managed to get Felix out because Mercedes bribed the right people.”

Claude’s eyebrow raised and Catherine continued. 

“Ah, and Mercedes. I’m sure you can see she looks unusually well. That’s what happens when you spend the better part of five years trying to appease your long-lost murderous brother who keeps you locked up like a prize pet while he slaughters civilians for the Agarthans.” 

“If you’re trying to get my condolences, you can have them,” Claude said, raising his hands in a gesture of concession. “Really, you don’t need to play ‘who suffered the worst’ to get my attention.” 

“Who suffered the worst, huh? Ingrid, of course, had to make a run for it before the Agarthans starved her people out,” Catherine continued as though she hadn’t heard. “I’d say she had the worst deal. She had to drag this drunken mess around the Kingdom for five years while I was still trying to get myself killed in Lady Rhea’s name. Oh, wait, actually I suppose Dedue had the worst deal. Because he’s _dead_.” 

“Alright, enough!” Claude snapped. “I promise, I get what you’re doing here.”

“Everyone in the Kingdom has sacrificed to get our king back,” Catherine said, her falsely friendly demeanor fading. “Some of them have sacrificed everything. So he has to live. Whatever you let Edelgard and her henchmen do to him, from now on, I do to you.”

Catherine stood, took another long swig, and then began to make her way down towards the woods again. 

Claude groaned and passed a hand over his eyes. Why did everyone insist on acting like he’d been there, cheering Hubert on? 

Alright, so they wanted him to talk to Edelgard. He’d talk to Edelgard then. On to the next crisis. 

Claude dragged himself back upright and gave a morose salute to Leonie who had just ridden back through the ruined gate with a doe thrown over the back of her horse. While his people were out putting food on the table and fixing the walls, Edelgard and her cabal preferred to skulk around the ruined cathedral and scheme. The former Black Eagles didn’t seem keen to be friends just yet. 

He turned and began the long tramp up to the cathedral with resignation. As he passed by the ruined stables, where in another, better world, he would be, he spotted Ingrid saddling up a pegasus. 

She’d always been a tough one, and, if she really had spent the last year carting around a drunken depressed Catherine, she didn’t show it much but for a wrapped burn on her arm. Her once loosely braided hair was now shorter and tightly pinned at the back of her head, shining gold despite the lack of soap. 

She was still beautiful and probably still very irritated by him. Back at the academy, before any of this, that had fascinated him slightly. Usually, people liked him. He needed people to like him. 

He hadn't had much time for romance as a student, outside of a few dates with some local girls and a strange and very inadvisable incident with Yuri; everything had been about his goals. Now here he was, five years older, still resisting the urge to bother Ingrid until he could figure out what exactly she didn’t like about him.

“Heading out already?” Claude called out as he passed by. “Had your fill of us?” 

Ingrid turned and glared at him. 

“Claude,” she said coldly, “I heard Dimitri got stabbed again.” 

“Okay, firstly, how does everyone know about this already, and secondly, why are all of you telling  _ me _ about it?” Claude groaned. 

“You’re supposed to be a peacemaker, right?” Ingrid said with a quirk of her eyebrow. “So make some peace. Handle it.” 

“Sure, I have some experience with difficult allies,” Claude shrugged, “I dealt with Lorenz for nearly a full year before he betrayed me, rode back to his father’s territory, and joined the Agarthans. Why aren’t you all dealing with it? You’re supposed to be his friends, right?” 

“He isn’t himself,” Ingrid said softly, then she looked up and her voice hardened. “He’s not well and Edelgard’s people won’t listen to us.”

“Alright, I’m on my way,” Claude said with a shrug, but couldn’t resist adding, “I’m just getting a little tired of saving everyone, again, when I know that next week your king is going to smash it all to pieces.” 

Ingrid dropped the bridle in her hand at that and spun around to face him. 

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she said. Her cheeks had flushed red, transfixing him momentarily. “You know, I never expected to say this, Claude, but I did finally figure out why I don’t like you.” 

“Why is that, then?” Claude snapped back. “Because you definitely can’t accuse me of being lazy this time. Is it still that letter? It was once, Ingrid!” 

“Because you are so… self-righteous!” Ingrid exploded. “I have never met anyone before so intolerantly convinced that his way is the only right way to do anything!”

Claude felt a burst of angry, slightly wild laughter escape his mouth at that. _ He _ was the intolerant one?  _ He _ was the self-righteous one? 

“You’re out of your mind,” Claude laughed. “You think I’m the one who won’t compromise?” 

“I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve made some mistakes and that I’ve been stubborn,” Ingrid shot back. “I have plenty of regrets. But you… you always act like you’re so above everyone else, like the things we’re fighting about don’t matter! You complain that everyone else is wrong, but you are so afraid of leaving yourself vulnerable that you never share with anyone what you believe!” 

“Yeah?” Claude asked, feeling blood rushing into his cheeks as well. “Would anyone listen if I did?” 

“I would,” Ingrid said. Then she turned back to her pegasus, grabbed the reins again and hoisted herself up onto the animal’s back. “Lots of people would. Best of luck, Claude.” 

“You’re seriously leaving?” Claude balked at the thought. 

“We left some of my cavalry stationed at an old fort to watch the road a few miles back,” Ingrid replied shortly. “I’m just going to get them.” 

“What for?” Claude asked as she wheeled her steed around and prepared to ride. She looked over her shoulder. 

“To help rebuild the stable,” she said. “You said you needed wyvern paddocks.”

And then she spurred her heels and took off. 

Claude watched her fly away, his heart still pounding harder than if he’d just come from a real battle. His fingers dug into the burned remains of the stable gate. 

She had called him intolerant. He was the one who  _ actually  _ had to deal with stubborn Fódlan nobleman and their intolerance. 

But, a twisting in his stomach told him, didn’t he believe a little bit that he was smarter than everyone else? Deep down, wasn’t his dream a world where everyone dropped their idiotic prejudices and listened to him instead? 

Talk to Edelgard, he told himself firmly, turning away from the ruined stable. Work on the plan, soothe tempers, make vague promises, survive another day. 

And don’t be wrong, don’t mess up, don’t make a mistake this time. 

For an alarming moment, he found it suddenly difficult to swallow. 

As he approached the cathedral, he felt eyes watching him from above. Petra was perched on the carved exterior. She had become Edelgard’s thief, sometimes assassin, from what he’d been able to gather. Petra had broken into Agarthan cities across the Empire to steal their secrets while Caspar had apparently mastered the art of distraction in the form of dropping large bombs to go off while she did the stealing.

Claude wasn’t sure how Edelgard knew where to send them, but he had strong suspicions that it had something to do with the letter she’d received from Linhardt that had set Dimitri off that morning. 

Inside of the cathedral, he spotted Edelgard speaking quietly to Ferdinand. He’d changed quite alarmingly as well. That hair was… well, impractical to be sure, but also glorious. 

“...convince the Count to at least grant us safe passage,” Edelgard was murmuring to Ferdinand. “You know his family, well, use his pride to your advantage.” 

Ferdinand nodded as Claude approached. 

“Very well,” Ferdinand said, “I will speak with you again once I have his cooperation assured.” 

Edelgard faced Claude as Ferdinand went striding past him. Claude would never have suspected that someone so brash had the makings of a good spy, but clearly Edelgard had found a way to harness Ferdinand’s sometimes obfuscating obliviousness. As long as Ferdinand looked like an idiotic nobleman, and he absolutely did, Agarthans apparently let him flit about between the powerful families who had sworn loyalty to the Reborn King of Liberation in Enbarr. 

Claude still hadn’t seen Bernadetta anywhere, but was beginning to suspect that she was indeed present. While he had initially thought she’d died or returned to her home, he kept spotting Felix leaving plates of food on the wall outside of their sleeping quarters like he was trying to bait some skittish stray cat. In that sense, maybe she had become the best spy of all.

“You’re here about the incident this morning, I presume?” Edelgard sighed as Claude stood in front of her. 

She looked so strangely regal despite their circumstances. While Claude found himself looking increasingly like a badly costumed pirate in an opera, Edelgard’s black ringed eyes and stiff armored posture only served to make her look like an ancient Emperor returned to life. 

“We are supposed to have a treaty, Edelgard,” Claude said firmly. “We all want the Agarthans gone and we all know that Garreg Mach is probably the last safe place in Fódlan to try to do that. All those javelins of light they tried to drop here ended up in Ailell, remember? We can’t exactly ask the Kingdom army to relocate.” 

“And you know I am committed to honoring that treaty,” Edelgard said. “The stabbing was regrettable, but I did not instigate it. I received a letter from Linhardt, who has been risking his life to pass us information from Bergliez territory, but Dimitri took it as a sign that I am still working for Agarthan leadership.” 

“Is Linhardt working for Agarthan leadership?” Claude asked doubtfully. 

“He is. He has been fully accepted into their Crestology lab, which is why we have been able to learn much of what we now know about Agarthan arcanity,” Edelgard said. “I was hoping we could afford to keep him there until they granted him access to their original laboratories, but his cover is endangered now that we are planning a more direct resistance.” 

“Really not trying to be difficult now, but you can see why it would be upsetting to some of your allies to hear that you are trying to unlock Agarthan arcanity and find their old labs for yourself,” Claude said with an apologetic grimace. Edelgard gave him a piercing look in return. 

“The weapons of our enemies are stronger than our own. Why should we not try to wield them?” she said. “Your friend Lysithea appears weaker. Her health is fading, correct?” 

Claude felt his fists clench slightly. All of them had watched Lysithea wasting away over the last five years. Although she had told them again and again that she was prepared, that she would be happy to go down fighting, he couldn’t… 

He had to figure something out. He would make a plan, like he always did. 

“Linhardt could cure her now,” Edelgard said gently, reading Claude like he’d just shouted his feelings aloud. “When he is back, he will. It will be his first order of business. Does that help you to understand?” 

“It, uh, it does. Thanks,” Claude managed to say. “But the point still stands, Edelgard. The Kingdom wants their king unharmed. Try not to open any letters in his presence. Or just try to never, ever encounter each other.” 

“I take your point,” Edelgard said. “And… I am sorry.”

Claude forced a crooked grin onto his face. 

“No worries, I’m smoothing it over,” he said easily. “Just another day at Garreg Mach.” 

By evening, everyone was exhausted. The dining hall was full and Mercedes seemed to have done her best with Leonie’s deer, portioning it so that everyone got a few chunks of fat. 

Claude ate his bowl quickly, standing to avoid getting caught up in any more debates. As he looked out over the room, however, he realized something odd. 

People were laughing. 

Petra was laughing, actually. She was sitting across from Ignatz, trying to squint through the new lenses he’d had to craft for himself after the previous pair had shattered in an attack. And Ignatz was laughing as well. 

Across the dining hall, Claude spotted Dorothea, who had apparently figured out how to activate the monastery's old glyphs so that they could have heated water again. She was pouring a celebratory round of drinks for her table, including Sylvain. As Claude watched, she trailed a finger down the scar that now cleaved across his face, and she smiled fondly. 

And Hilda had just come in, sighing over the state of her back loudly until Ferdinand of all people mentioned that he had once been known for giving the finest massages in all of Fódlan. 

Annette sat with Lysithea and Raphael as Lysithea lectured her about how they might remove the broken tracker still visibly implanted in her neck and Caspar stopped by to proclaim that if she just wore a scarf more often, no one would notice. He had, apparently, made her just such a scarf that looked something like a tangled blue hairball. 

Even Felix, Felix who had somehow gotten even angrier and rawer in the past five years, was leaning against the door. That new white streak in his hair was troubling, but as Claude watched, Felix glanced outside, then tossed a piece of bread over his shoulder. His face spasmed slightly for a moment in what Claude was certain might have been a smile. 

So, despite everything, Claude thought, they were still friends. Despite the war and the five years of pain and loss, despite the betrayal, some of them were glad to see each other again. 

If he could leverage that, Claude wondered, there was a chance. He doubted he would ever untangle the snarling knot of Edelgard and Dimitri. 

But the others…? There might be some hope there. 

Finishing his food, Claude stretched wearily. One last person to talk to then. 

Dimitri was still huddled on one of the beds when Claude entered the infirmary. The room was lit by a single candle that made the shadow of him enormous, flickering against the wall. At first, Claude thought he might still be sleeping, but as he paused in the doorway, he heard the low murmuring of Dimitri’s voice. 

“I swear it, father, I swear, please, I will, I promise,” Dimitri was mumbling to himself. “Glenn, no, no, I will avenge you, I will, I just need time, I need time, I-” 

“Dimitri?” Claude spoke softly, hoping not to startle him. Dimitri flinched anyways, and sat up. At least he wasn’t too drowsy after whatever Hubert had given him. 

“What do you want?” Dimitri asked, voice darkening to the low growl he now spoke in. Except of course, when he spoke to himself in those hoarse, pleading tones. 

“The treaty,” Claude said, deciding to remain in the doorway and give him space in case he tried to lunge. “You swore an oath not to harm Edelgard or her people until after the war was over.” 

“I have honored my oath,” Dimitri said, his head still turned away from Claude. “She is unharmed.” 

Claude sighed. He had no idea what to say. To anyone else, he might scold or bribe or threaten, but none of it would work on the mad king of Faerghus. That was sort of the point of being mad, he supposed. There was no rationalizing with Dimitri. 

“Can I ask why?” Claude said after a few moments. “Not why today, I heard about the letter. But… why her? We all hate the Agarthans, that makes sense. And none of us trust Edelgard for working with them. But why do you, or rather, why do  _ they _ want her dead so badly?” 

Dimitri turned to glare at him at the reference to his spectral mental company. Turns out, one eye can still roll as effectively as two. 

“The dead want justice. Only I can get it for them,” Dimitri replied dully. “Mock it if you’d like. I don’t care. But I will not ignore their cries, the cries of the powerless and the suffering.” 

“But why Edelgard?” Claude pressed him again. “She was a child when your family was killed, right? Even if she knew the people involved, how could she have stopped it?”

“She was…” Dimitri trailed off. “She is my step-sister. Her own mother burned in Duscur and she still… she still sided with  _ them _ .” 

Claude blinked. That was news to him. Shocking news, considering the lineage of the nobility of Fódlan was something he was supposed to be rather familiar with. Edelgard’s mother had been a consort called Anselma, right? Not Patricia. 

Except that people had different names in different places sometimes. Idiot, he scolded himself. What would foolish little prince Khalid say to Claude now? 

“She sided with the Agarthans,” Claude agreed. “And now, she’s sided with us. Make the dead wait a little longer, please.” 

Before Dimitri could reply, Marianne came running up the stairs. 

“There’s trouble,” she said, her usually furrowed brow more pronounced than normal. “Lorenz just rode in from Gloucester territory. He says there is an army on its way here to flush us out.” 

“That two-faced bastard,” Claude cursed. “I knew I wasn’t rid of him yet.” 

On to the next crisis. 

They met in the cardinal’s room on the less-damaged second floor of the monastery. Even so, it was too crowded for comfort, especially with a group of people he didn’t trust yet not to try to kill each other.

Lorenz was there, his armor spattered with mud and ash from the road. He’d grown his hair out, which looked idiotic, but it was somehow better than before. 

If there was any person at Garreg Mach that Claude himself was going to have a difficult time forgiving, it was Lorenz. 

“The army is about a day’s march from here now,” Lorenz said, indicating on a map where he’d ridden. “We have little time to prepare our defenses. Either we flee or we make a stand.” 

“Will Gloucester be sending any aid?” Claude asked, pacing the back of the room to avoid sitting at the crowded table. “Surrounding them, maybe?”

“House Gloucester is allied with Agartha,” Lorenz replied with a sour smile. “As I’m sure you recall. Most of that army, in fact, is conscripted Gloucester men. When we fail to send them enough troops, they put the plague back in our water.” 

“Who is their leader?” Shamir asked, straightforward as ever. “Could they be drawn off?” 

“That’s the most intriguing… or perhaps the most dangerous part of this,” Lorenz said, somehow managing to appear smug despite the fact that they were probably all about to die in a siege. “Kronya is leading them. We have the Beastlord herself coming to our doorstep.” 

Claude watched Leonie’s knuckles go white where she gripped the table. 

“Our defenses are still in shambles,” Sylvain said with a sigh. “We ought to retreat. Disperse to the wilds and wait for them to leave.” 

“I did manage to reactivate some of the monastery's arcane generators,” Dorothea added. “So we have some artillery.” 

“I’ve taken stock of a lot of the damage,” Ignatz said, shaking his head. “We won’t withstand a long siege, but the main wall is strong and some of the debris will make it harder for the enemy to rush the gate directly.” 

“We need to target the enemy general,” Edelgard said in a way that did not invite questions. She had seated herself at the head of the table without a second thought. “Kronya is a valuable target, perhaps the most valuable we’ve had a chance at yet. Those soldiers are conscripted. They will likely flee once the leadership falls.” 

Hubert immediately followed her statement with action. 

“Lady Edelgard is correct,” he said, “I can lead a small team to assassinate Kronya while the rest of our forces draw her attention. Once the enemy flees, we will have a victory with minimal casualties.

“No.” 

Dimitri was sitting across the room from Edelgard, Catherine at his side. Claude was not entirely sure if she would restrain him or assist him if he decided to break his oath. 

“Predictable,” Lorenz sighed. “Subtlety is lost on this one, I take it. What was that marvellous nickname they used to call you, ‘the boar’?” 

Felix instantly slammed his hand onto the table.

“Say that again and you lose your tongue,” he snarled at Lorenz. Then he folded his arms. “I agree with the boar, though. We can’t assume an entire army will just vanish if we kill a single Agarthan. And even if they did retreat, they’d only return in another month with another leader. Wiping them out is our only option.” 

“You may be right,” Mercedes said with a shake of her head. “But I can’t help but feel sorry for all those poor people. They might not want to be in this war at all, and some of them might be old friends of Lorenz or Claude.” 

“Trying to be taking out a whole army when we are having fewer soldiers is not what is best,” Petra objected. “You must have trust that we have been hunting Agarthans for many years. We have had devising of many such plans.” 

“No,” Dimitri insisted, this time louder. “These rats serve the Agarthans now. They deserve their fate. Letting one rat go only brings hundreds more.” 

Shouting began to break out across the room. Hubert was reaching for something at his belt. 

“I’d like to hear what Claude has to say!” Ingrid bellowed, shocking everyone into silence. She’d only barely returned from retrieving her battalion before the meeting and a few strands of her hair had escaped down the side of her face. 

Claude blinked in stunned silence as suddenly every eye in the room turned towards him. 

“I-” he began, then shook off his surprise and replaced his usual smile. “I’m not sure adding a third opinion would be helpful right now.” 

“I want to hear it,” Ingrid insisted, folding her arms. He couldn’t tell if she was goading him or legitimately curious. “You’re an equal part of this group, right? A third of our soldiers are yours. You ought to do them the honor of at least stating your plan.” 

Claude stood there, mouth suddenly dry. He had a plan. He had a hundred plans. But if he spoke them aloud, there would be debate, criticism, scorn, and more fighting. Always more insufferable fighting. 

“We fight each other!” Claude abruptly said, the idea hitting him as he gave voice to the words. “We… we go to battle against each other.”

The room was silent. 

“Well, to be honest, I was kind of expecting this,” Raphael broke the silence with a long sigh and the scrape of his chair as he stood up. “It’s going to be hard though, I really missed you guys.”

“That is not what he means,” Lysithea hissed in response, ineffectually smacking Raphael’s leg. 

“Ha, yes,” Claude said with a nervous laugh. “So what I was thinking was that our enemies don’t realize we have an… let’s be charitable and call it an alliance. If we divide our forces and have some of them march on the monastery alongside the Agarthans, we can flank them on both sides, kill Kronya, and then force a surrender. I’m willing to debate the question of how many of them we let go or take as prisoners, but from a purely logistical standpoint, we could use the spare weapons and armor.” 

“That idea actually has some merit,” Edelgard said, her violet eyes narrowing. 

“Merit?” Annette said from the other end of the table. He hadn’t seen her so animated in weeks. “I think it’s brilliant!” 

“I concede it,” Claude said with a wink. Ingrid was looking at him, arms still folded, but there was a begrudging smile on her lips. 

“Oh, Dorothea used to be an actress, right?” Hilda interjected gleefully. “Maybe she can coach us, so it seems like we all hate each other!” 

Dorothea opened her mouth and then looked uncomfortably around the table for a few seconds. 

“I, uh, I’m not sure we’ll need much coaching.” 

The enemy arrived by twilight of the next day. Edelgard and her forces were arranged along the monastery walls and ready to rush from the barely functional gates, but it was clear that alone she would be overrun. 

The Kingdom’s soldiers were waiting to emerge from the woods. If the Agarthan army gave them leave to charge for the monastery, they would control the left flank. If the Agarthan army held off on the monastery gates and instead decided to take out the Kingdom soldiers, Dimitri and all of his forces would probably get surrounded and killed. 

Claude waited on the right flank with the former Golden Deer. The wyvern beneath him made an anxious grunt, tired of remaining still for so long. He patted her neck and shushed her. 

“I know,” he whispered, “me too.” 

Lorenz had unfortunately decided to join his former housemates for the gambit. He’d always had a knack for underestimating how unwelcome his presence was. 

“It’s almost time,” Lorenz murmured from a few feet away through the trees. His own horse was pacing a bit as well from the long hours standing. “I can hear shouting on the walls.” 

“Let’s hope they take the bait,” Claude said shortly in response. 

“It is a clever plan, you know,” Lorenz said, somehow turning a compliment into a reflection of his own observational splendor. “I hope you know that I never took issue with your strategic skills as a house leader. My decision to leave was purely for the purposes of self-preservation. Your tactics can only keep you alive so long if you’re on a losing path.” 

“Great apology, I’m all better now,” Claude shot back peevishly. “Let’s be best friends again once we’re back.” 

From behind him in the forest, Claude heard the sound of Hilda choke with laughter but manage to pass it off as a sneeze. 

Distantly, a drum of hoofbeats echoed over the woods. Claude clicked his heels, his wyvern finally free to launch from the branch where she had perched.

He soared up in time to see the Kingdom soldiers pouring down from their hill towards the monastery. They were galloping for the walls with a furious battlecry that echoed over the valley. Claude squinted, watching the flickering torches of the Gloucester troops approaching the walls. 

The Agarthan army was… waiting. Hoping the Kingdom would do their work for them in softening up Edelgard’s defenses. 

“They’re taking the bait!” he called down. “Move!”

Wyverns exploded up from the woods, making a path directly for the monastery walls as though they intended to fly over and try to take the keep from within. Below, the cavalry broke into a gallop as they were freed from the trees. Claude hardly dared to look as he took aim with the glowing arch of Failnaught, pulling the string back and releasing an arrow so that it plummeted uselessly into the stone wall. 

Suddenly, the battlefield was chaos. No one could tell who was fighting who anymore. Dorothea’s artillery launched smoke-filled grenades out into the field, making all of the soldiers into greyish blurs. 

From above, Claude spotted Caspar leading men down from the gates in an onslaught, breaking through the enemy shields and smashing their lines. Distantly, he heard the sound of wood shattering and then watched with despair as Dimitri had pulled loose one of their brand new doors with his bare hands and flung it into the path of an Agarthan cavalry charge. 

Then, pale skin gleaming in the dusky remains of daylight, he spotted her. Kronya. 

She was at the back of the army with her vanguard, clearly rallying to see if she should flee or reorganize her shattered lines. Claude was not about to give her the chance. 

He stood up in his stirrups and angled the wyvern’s nose down, swooping low to get a shot at her. She flinched as the first arrow passed over her shoulder. 

“Ah, more of you vermin than we were expecting,” she said playfully as she spotted him. “Did you actually have your little school reunion? My feelings are hurt; I didn’t get an invite for some reason. It’s so nice when the pests congregate and let us stamp them all out at once.” 

As she said it, she raised her sword in the air and Claude heard a crack before a bolt of lightning flung him to the ground. He heard the scream of his wyvern as she skidded on the dirt and he rolled on his shoulder, fumbling to raise his bow for another shot despite the pain screaming up his elbow. 

Kronya flipped her sword in her hand, clearly toying with him. Bolts of blue arcane energy crackled along the edge. 

“You like it?” she said casually as she approached where he had fallen. “It’s just a glimpse of what a true Agarthan can do now that we’re back in our rightful place. If you beg, I’ll make it quick.” 

Claude rolled backwards, hoping to surprise her, and fired another arrow. His elbow shook with pain and the shot only skimmed Kronya’s icy pale cheek. She reached up one hand to touch the blood as it welled, looking almost offended. 

“Disgusting vermin,” she whispered, voice shaking with fury. “Now you’ll wish I had killed you. This body has survived hundreds of years, perfected, enhanced, and never, ever, touched, you-” 

Her words were cut off by a spear that burst through the front of her chest. She made a single, gurgling cry, and then fell limp. Leonie pushed her body from the edge of her lance with a boot. 

“That was for an old friend,” she said flatly, and then offered Claude a hand back to his feet. 

“Good timing,” Claude panted, groaning as he felt what was probably a broken bone shift in his arm. 

“Good plan,” Leonie said in response, her eyes crinkling just slightly in a rare smile. 

“Worthy of Jeralt?” Claude asked, his voice gentle enough that she would know he was teasing. 

“Better,” Leonie affirmed and then gave him an only slightly mocking salute as she prepared for the next attack. “Your majesty.” 

The smoke cleared as night fell. A few battalions had fled into the woods, but most of the Agarthan forces had thrown down their weapons and surrendered once they’d seen Kronya fall and the three armies surrounding them. 

They had won a battle. Probably, Claude thought, he should not be this excited about a group of highly trained officers and noblemen winning a single battle. Still, it had been a long, long time. 

Marianne came to fuse the bones of his elbow back together while he overlooked the battlefield. 

He was leaning back against his exhausted wyvern. The animal’s sides were a bit scorched, but she’d probably forgive him if he brought a few rabbits out for her. 

“Survived again?” Claude said as Marianne gently shifted his arm into the right position. 

“I always do,” Marianne said quietly. The wyvern snorted happily at her presence, leaning down to lick the top of her head and winning a rare smile from her. 

“And you still think you’re cursed?” Claude said, wincing as white magic tingled through his arm. 

“I would prefer not to speak of that, you know,” Marianne said, closing her eyes as she concentrated. 

“Sorry,” Claude replied, abruptly self-conscious. “I guess I really do have a habit of trying to get at people’s secrets without sharing any of my own.” 

“It’s alright,” Marianne said, testing the motion of his newly mended joint. “I trust you.” 

Claude laughed softly at that.    


“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sometimes people love their leaders,” Marianne said with a shrug. “That’s true for Edelgard. And Dimitri. His own people, um, they clearly love him dearly or they would not follow him like this. But your people love you and they trust you. That’s enough. You don’t owe us more.” 

Claude looked up at the stars now appearing over the monastery and blinked a few times very rapidly. 

“Well, not Lorenz though,” he managed to joke. “He probably doesn’t count.” 

Marianne honored him with a giggle at that. 

“We ought to get back to the monastery,” Claude said, brushing himself off and shifting his wyvern back to her feet. “I’ve been away for five minutes so something is probably on fire.” 

Marianne nodded, already rolling her sleeves back and glancing towards the line of wounded making their way through the gates. 

“But,” Claude said with a contented sigh. “I think a victory feast might finally be in order.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changing the title to 'Three Lords, One Fódlan' and no one can stop me. Let's all toast to Claude, my perfect boy, my OG house leader, for keeping it together. Next time, we will explore one of my favorite bickering rarepairs from Ingrid's perspective as she pays a visit to a big volcano. 
> 
> Thank you for your comments and fun ideas and very cool speculation! Future commenters will receive my services as an adjutant and I will constantly guard you from damage by flinging my heavily armored body into the path of your enemies.


	16. The Valley of Torment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingrid tries not to be selfish, but Claude makes that difficult. She joins him on a mission to Ailell.

Beneath a stand of scraggly trees, partially submerged in ashy mud, Ingrid had discovered a miracle. Blackberries. Some green, but some dark and plump, glimmering in a rare beam of late afternoon sun. 

She ought to collect them, take them back to Garreg Mach and share them, but she already had a basket of acorns and there were only a few ripe. Just a little indulgence, then, after so long without. She put one in her mouth and relished the feeling of sweetness bathing her tongue. 

Back in Galatea territory, men boiled leather belts and old shoes to fill their bellies. Her father had held out as long as he could, but even once he surrendered his lands to the Agarthans, they seemed to want the locals punished for his initial resistance. 

The soil had been infertile before, but being suddenly beside a volcano newly reactivated by arcane explosions had only made matters worse. And now the people of Galatea bowed to Thales in hopes of Fhirdiad grain and killed family dogs for the soup pot. 

The taste of the blackberry in her mouth soured. 

Before the war, she had been caught between saving her father from his mounting debts through a good marriage and serving the Kingdom as a knight. Well, that choice had been made. She had pledged herself to the cause of restoring the king, of fighting for him until their people were free again. That was her duty. 

It was also her selfish desire. And her father was starving to death. And her king was…

Ingrid picked the rest of the ripened blackberries and carefully tied them up in her handkerchief before starting back towards the monastery. She had to keep her head up, stop wavering in her decision. She would uphold the oaths she had sworn to Dimitri to free the Kingdom and destroy the Agarthan invaders. Selfishly. 

For the past month, the monastery had been relatively peaceful. The restored defenses were coming along and supplies were holding thanks to Claude, although she’d never say that to his face. Edelgard had been blissfully staying out of the way, willing to play cooperatively so long as she was promised reinforcements from the Kingdom and the Alliance. While Ingrid’s gut still roiled with anger at the thought of that traitor earning clemency, she also had to admit it was helpful to have more information about the Agarthans. 

It was late afternoon as Ingrid made it back to the kitchens to drop off the supplies she’d gathered. Mercedes waved at her as she left the basket of acorns. Apart from her shorter hair, Mercedes still gave Ingrid the odd feeling that she’d stepped directly out of the past. 

She couldn’t imagine what it had been like to spend five years pretending, and maybe sometimes not pretending, to love the vicious killer who was somehow also her brother. But at the very least, the scars weren’t so visible on her. 

Ingrid hesitated for a moment over the handful of warm blackberries. She could leave them, give some tiny fraction of joy to someone else who needed it. But she also wanted them. Wanted just a moment of pleasure amid all the bleakness.

Before she could come to a decision, Claude walked through the dining hall and all rational thought seemed to leave her head, as was unfortunately common when Claude was around. 

He looked a little lighter in the past month, his shoulders a little straighter now that there was a semblance of hope again. Now that they were all a little less scruffy, she could see that the Almyran scarf he wore sometimes to push back his dark curls had bright green lines woven through the intricate lattice of pattern, just the same shade as his eyes. 

“Ingrid,” he said, nodding to her as she hurriedly pretended to not be staring. “Glad to catch you, do you have a moment?” 

“Yes, certainly,” Ingrid replied, drawing the blackberries behind her back with one hand. “What do you need?” 

“We just received confirmation from Rodrigue and Judith. They have soldiers willing to join us here, but it is too risky to congregate them openly without risking an Agarthan ambush. As such, the only place we can maintain our secrecy is if we use Ailell as a cover,” Claude frowned at the thought. “It isn’t ideal, but I was wondering if you would join my group when I go to meet them. Galatea is close to Ailell and we could use someone with experience on difficult terrain.” 

He was so carefully formal with her now. Ever since their confrontation, he’d been as well-behaved as any Kingdom knight. 

Which was annoying. 

“Yes, if it would be useful, I will accompany you,” Ingrid replied. “Will you be taking mostly your own soldiers?” 

“Felix will be there as well to meet with his father and Ashe volunteered to come to represent Edelgard’s interests without causing too much conflict,” Claude said politely. “We will need to set out by the morning if that gives you enough time to prepare.” 

“Plenty, thank you,” Ingrid said with a nod. 

“I appreciate your assistance,” Claude said, nodding as well. Ingrid paused, waiting for him to turn away, but also not wanting him to leave. Finally, he did turn to go. 

“Wait!” she burst out and his head snapped back around, jumpy enough that she could tell he’d been waiting for her to speak. “This is weird. Please. Just go back to normal and stop acting like… ugh, like me.”

Claude cracked a slight smile, making his hooded green eyes crinkle in a way Ingrid was not allowing herself to analyze. 

“I was trying to be nice,” he said with a shrug. “You made it pretty clear you find my usual demeanor unpleasant.” 

“I do,” Ingrid said shortly. “But this is also unpleasant. Just… ah, I apologize, alright? I never meant to tell you that you couldn’t be who you are. It just came out all wrong.”

“I’m not sure it was all wrong,” Claude sighed, suddenly becoming unable to meet her eyes. “I don’t really trust people easily. Sometimes it makes me a bit closed off.” 

_Yes_ , Ingrid thought, _that’s the whole problem with you. That you make me feel vulnerable, like you can read my every thought, while remaining so mysterious and so untouchable. That you stand behind a curtain of charms and words while I am transparent and foolish._

“Well, right, um,” Ingrid said, “I’m still sorry. And, here.” 

She quickly handed him the handkerchief of blackberries before he could protest. 

“For Lysithea,” Ingrid explained as her legs were already carrying her out of the room. “I heard she was improving and she might want something sweet.” 

She didn’t hear his response if he had one. She was already rushing back to her own room. 

When she arrived back at the old dormitories, now at least partially refurbished, but for some trouble with mice in the old mattresses and much of the furniture being used for wood over the past winter, she found Sylvain’s door open. 

He was sitting with a book in his lap, locks of red hair obscuring his face as he flipped through pages of arcane glyphs. He had always been a much more diligent worker when he thought no one was watching. 

Ingrid knocked once on the open door and then flung herself down across his bed. He gave her a fond glare as she leaned back against his clean blankets, the scar on his face standing out pink against his skin. 

“Well, well, well, Ingrid, at last,” he said, “what did Claude do this time?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ingrid groaned. Sylvain waited a beat skeptically. “Fine! He’s being polite to me. It’s awful. I feel guilty for calling him self-righteous now, but also _he is._ Can you be self-righteous if you’re also… right?” 

“As I have said before Ingrid, I am a simple man. My feelings are simple things. If I like someone, I profess my affections,” Sylvain shrugged. “If you like someone, you analyze it for years, find reasons to believe that you actually hate that person, and then feel guilty for hating them.” 

“I don’t know why I even bother asking you about these things,” Ingrid sighed. “How’s the magic going?”

Sylvain gestured airily with the book. 

“Not terrible. Dorothea said I’d be decent enough to run some defenses, if it comes to that,” he said in what Ingrid was sure was an attempt to downplay his own progress. 

“And how is it spending time with Dorothea after so many years?” Ingrid asked. Sylvain shrugged, his face still carefully neutral. 

“A lot easier now,” he said and then laughed. “I’m not such a catch anymore without my looks or my title. Even the Crest is pretty dicey these days. Who needs a lover constantly at risk for exsanguination? I’m enjoying the simple chaste pleasures of life now.” 

“Enough of that,” Ingrid said, rolling her eyes. When she’d found Sylvain again after that first terrible year of the war, the scar had shocked her. She knew he’d been able to tell, had noticed the surprise on her face when she first saw him. The hurt in his eyes had been unbearable. “She still likes you.” 

“I’m more likable now,” Sylvain said, his smile going a bit vacant for a moment. “Pity has always been one of my greatest weapons. If even Ingrid is trying to flatter me, I can tell the situation is dire.” 

“Stop it, seriously,” Ingrid said more firmly this time. His smile faded slightly. 

On an impulse, she stood up and then gave him a tight, fast hug. 

“What was that?” he asked, the sarcasm mostly gone from his voice. 

“You’re my best friend,” Ingrid said, “I don’t like it when you aren’t kind to yourself. We all need you now. Me and… other old friends.” 

Sylvain grimaced slightly. 

“Dimitri still barely talks to me,” he said, “and when he does, it’s all about how we need to get back to the Kingdom, need to kill Thales and Cornelia, need to exterminate the Agarthans and everyone who helped them. Like he doesn’t even imagine living beyond that.” 

Ingrid nodded. She felt the shared longing between them for a moment, longing for a friend who was present and yet absent at the same time. After the Tragedy, Sylvain had always found some way to cheer them up. And Ingrid had always been there for Dimitri when he needed structure and order and calm. But this time, it was different. He was here, and yet he was unreachable. 

“I’ve got to go,” Ingrid said, rolling back to her feet. “I’m supposed to escort the group meeting our reinforcements at Ailell and I need to pack. Ask Dorothea to dinner.” 

“Tell Claude you want to stare into his eyes for hours,” Sylvain shot back. 

“Scars can be handsome,” Ingrid shouted over her shoulder. “And I don’t want to stare into his eyes!” 

The following morning, they left at dawn, as many of the party as possible airborn to hopefully counteract the heat and the split bedrock around Ailell. The valley had been a danger as long as Ingrid had been alive, occasionally shaking the earth around it or venting poisonous gas, but no one had ever settled near enough to it to feel the adverse effects. 

After the javelins of light had fallen there, however, the centuries old fury of the earth had been let loose and now the surrounding territories were constantly battling clouds of ash, acid rain, and hot dry winds filled with sparks that caught thatch roofs like so much kindling. 

From what Annette had told her, still cagey and anxious after a year of using her talents in sorcery for the Agarthan war engine, the attack on Ailell was likely accidental. The damage of the ashfall was just as much an annoyance to Agartha as it was to the common folk of Fódlan. 

If that was true, it could only mean that their original target had been Garreg Mach, but some ancient power of the monastery protected it. Still protected it, hopefully; nothing had fallen from the sky yet. 

They stopped midday to rest the animals. Ingrid’s pegasus was thirsty, sweat running down her neck, and Ingrid felt the same. It was already growing hot, even at this distance. 

Felix looked irritable, tugging at his armor to try and get some relief from the heat. He was probably not in the mood for a companionable chat, although when was he ever? 

Claude sat on a dry fallen tree, scorched at the crown where it had burned, and took a long drink from his canteen. A few beads of sweat ran down from his temple, leaving tracks on his neck as he drank. Ingrid needed a distraction. 

“It’s been a while, Ingrid.” 

Ingrid felt oddly relieved and alarmed at the same time. Ashe was sitting at the other end of the small camp, holding his hand up in greeting. He’d grown into his body better in the past five years, no longer the stringy adolescent she’d known. 

“Certainly has,” she agreed, sitting beside him as he made an inviting pat on the ground. She’d always gotten along well with Ashe. Their interactions were so easy, but only if they ignored the constant subcurrent of opposition that lay beneath their words. 

He’d made the choice to go with Edelgard. She could understand his resentment towards the Church of Seiros, but she would never understand how he could rationalize the cost of destroying it. 

“Do you still read much?” Ashe asked, revisiting a safe and familiar topic. 

“I wish I could, but,” Ingrid smiled tightly, “there hasn’t been much time lately.” 

They lapsed into silence for a minute. 

“I feel the same way,” Ashe finally spoke. “There doesn’t seem to be much time for tales of chivalry now.” 

“So not much reading for you either?” Ingrid said, catching that his meaning had shifted slightly from hers. “Even with the remains of the library?” 

“Oh, I still read them,” Ashe said with a gentle laugh, “but I have trouble understanding them now. For example, I used to love the stories of Loog. He was so brave and so chivalrous and he fought for the Kingdom’s independence, which I thought was good. But he was also a warmongering opportunist, determined to destroy the unity of the Adrestian Empire to serve his goals. And his methods… well, I don’t care for them anymore now that I see them in practice.” 

“He reminds you of Dimitri?” Ingrid guessed, hoping he didn’t intend to press too hard on that nerve. 

“In some ways,” Ashe nodded his head. “And yet, I also see the shadow of Edelgard in his legacy. As I said, tales of chivalry don’t seem to make much sense to me anymore.” 

“Would you think me childish if I said that they still bring me hope?” Ingrid asked. Ashe shook his head. 

“Not at all,” he said. “In fact, I would be jealous. I see no weakness in keeping a part of yourself soft… able to still believe in ideals.” 

Ingrid was quiet for a moment, thinking over his words. The world was so dark and confusing and sad right now. If she needed her ideals, her stories, and other lies to keep her going, how could that  _ not  _ be a form of failure? The truth ought to be good, right? 

“I wish you’d stayed, Ashe,” she finally said, not accusatory, merely imagining such a mythical golden world. 

“I wish I could have,” he said without any resentment. 

So that was how things stood between them then. The break ended, and they packed up the camp. Onwards to the valley of torment. 

After only a few more hours of riding, the heat became nearly unbearable. Ingrid’s clothing was damp with sweat and her eyes burned from the dry, acrid air. Her armor was growing warm against her skin, leaving dull reddish marks where it pressed through the fabric of her tunic. They were almost there. 

The meeting was supposed to take place along a mostly safe plain, too far from the caldera to risk suffocating in the smoke. Nevertheless, Ingrid saw molten rock bubbling in craters across the earth, deadly should one even get near. They landed at the edge of the plain while scouts took to the air to survey the area. 

“The valley of torment, huh?” Hilda said, panting beside Claude as she fanned herself with one hand. “I guess the Goddess would have to be pretty angry to do something like this.” 

“Begs the question of why she hasn’t dropped one of these on Thales and Solon,” Claude remarked. “Or maybe the Ashen Demon really is her divine chosen king.” 

Up on the ridge of another crater, Ingrid spotted movement. 

“There,” Felix said. “That could be my father now.” 

But as all of them squinted up at the army, no Fraldarius banner unfurled, nor the colors of House Daphnel. 

“Mount up,” Claude barked sharply. “This is a trap.” 

“What about the reinforcements?” Ingrid asked, her foot already in the stirrup. “We can’t abandon them.” 

“We’re not,” Claude commanded, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on the hazy outline of the soldiers on the ridge. “If those are enemy soldiers, we have no choice but to fight here with what we have. Houses Fraldarius and Daphnel will never make it back to safety even if they did avoid the ambush.” 

“We just have to hope they survived then,” Ashe said as he gripped the reigns of his own wyvern. “Have some faith, I suppose.” 

“Avoid those craters!” Claude yelled to their quickly rallying soldiers. “Retreat if you’re shot down and stay off the ground when you can. Advance!” 

Ingrid clicked her heels and the pegasus galloped forward, unfurling its wings with a snort of discomfort as the hot air burned the delicate feathers. The opposing army saw their charge and made no more pretense, rushing down the hill with the advantage of momentum. 

The lines clashed over the center of the plain. Heat nearly blinded her as she wove between arrows and spears, diving and darting with her spear in hand. 

An axe wielding warrior sliced through the thick leather pad on her leg and she felt a shallow cut open up, but kept fighting. She raised her spear, rallying her Galatean knights back to her with a cry, and they dived in unison, knocking a battalion of archers to the ground before their arrows could tear through wing and flesh. 

She saw Claude out of the corner of her eye, he and Hilda soaring gracefully around one another, trading spots and dodging blows. Leonie was at the back, keeping her grounded archers carefully away from the hottest craters while they sent volleys of arrows high into the air and chipped away at the back of the enemy line. 

“Mage!” Ashe yelled somewhere nearby and Ingrid looked up in time to see a bolt of lightning scatter the center of their forces, sending one pegasus screaming to the ground in a charred heap. 

Ingrid scanned the field and spotted a man in a dark robe, a familiar pallor visible beneath a low hat brim. She’d seen him before, fled before him during those terrible years where she was hunted across the land and Catherine wept and begged to be allowed to fight and finally die. 

He was an Agarthan enforcer, not given a territory to rule like Solon or Cornelia, but still a high ranking general of their council. Myson. 

Ingrid moved quickly to ensure that the line was not broken, readying herself for an onslaught. She swung her lance across her path, using the point to keep the enemies back rather than stab for a kill. Her leg ached, but she gritted her teeth and forced her muscles to tighten in her seat, keeping herself firm in the saddle no matter how they battered her back. 

An Agarthan soldier on a wyvern crashed against her in the air and she tipped back, feeling the spear in her hands shatter from the blow. She let it fall to the ground, instead seizing the sword at her belt and hacking at her foe until she found the gap in his armor at the shoulder. 

Her throat felt raw from the heat of the air as she pulled her pegasus back upwards. They couldn’t keep this up much longer. 

“Reinforcements, across the valley!” 

The cry rang out across the plains. One of their scouts was returning, waving a spear back over his shoulder. Ingrid held her sword aloft and gave a wordless cry of aggression as their forces surged forward, emboldened. 

The Agarthan line began to break, dissolving as they charged. They were backed up against a molten crater of rock, caught and pinned in their own ambush. Many of the ones on flying mounts began to flee, leaving their more vulnerable comrades to their fates. They were mostly conscripted men, she reminded herself, and they had little real desire to die for their Agarthan overlords. 

“Let them go!” Claude’s voice rang out. “Don’t give chase, we need to stay united. The rest of their force is probably camped outside the valley!” 

Ingrid slashed down a few more swordsmen desperately trying to break through her cavalry squad. She wheeled her mount to the side, watching as the Agarthans fled back up the ridge, many falling under the rain of arrows from Leonie’s archers. 

“Hold!” Ingrid held her arm up, drawing her forces back from overextending. 

As she did, however, a dark shape sped past her. Ashe. 

“Ashe, hold!” she called out, watching him coax his wyvern forward at full speed. He turned to look back at her for a second. 

“We can’t let the general go!” he called back. “The opportunity is too good.” 

Ingrid cursed, wiping sweat that was now stinging her eyes as it dripped down her face. 

“The rest of you pull back, I’ll get him,” she yelled to her soldiers and then she swooped after Ashe. 

Myson was surrounded by a unit of mages, already drawing back across a narrow strip of solid land between two craters. Ashe dove towards him, dodging blasts of dark energy in the air as he took aim with his bow, nearly on top of Myson as he prepared to fire. 

Ingrid was close behind him, urging her exhausted mount on faster and faster. 

“Ashe!” she yelled again, “slow down, match with me, I can-” 

He turned to look back at her for a split second, his bow drawn and ready to fire. 

And then a spike of dark energy erupted from the ground beneath him, spearing the wyvern through its throat and sending the creature tumbling to the ground. 

Ingrid watched, as though she was paralyzed, as though everything was happening extremely slowly. 

Ashe was thrown forward by his momentum, the bow in his hands plummeting to the ground. His body rammed into Myson’s, their arms wrapping around one another in a desperate battle, in an embrace. 

Myson was knocked backwards, staggering, skidding. 

They both fell over the edge of the crater and into the pool of molten rock. Ingrid screamed. 

The rest of the mages fled and she landed her pegasus with brutal speed, stumbling and bruising her knees against the ground as she peered as close to the edge as she could. She felt the skin on her face blistering. 

But they were gone. Both of them, totally gone. Not even a body to recover, just a blackened twisted shape. 

Ingrid felt the scream in her raw throat turn to coughing, turn to desperate sobbing. She crawled back away from the edge, the tears on her cheeks burning with salt where the skin had blistered and split. 

Nearby she heard the sound of another person landing, of footsteps growing near. She reached for her sword as arms caught around her. 

“Ingrid!” 

It was Claude. He was staring at her and she saw in his face that he was terrified. 

“We have to go, we’re all pulling back!” he shouted, trying to move her. 

“Ashe,” she managed to say through the gasping sobs that still caught in her throat. “He… he went…” 

Claude looked over her shoulder and then squeezed his eyes shut. Ingrid felt her knees buckle, but his arms wrapped around her and caught her. 

She let her head relax into his chest while the tears she could not stop soaked into his already sweat-dampened shirt. He held her tightly, one hand on her back, the other cupping the back of her head as she pressed her face against him. Ingrid shook and her hands clenched tightly in the fabric of his shirt until the shock began to wear off. 

“We need to go, Ingrid, I’m sorry,” Claude whispered as she began to pull back. “I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what to…” 

“Let’s go,” Ingrid said, taking a few shaky steps back to her pegasus. Tears still ran painful tracks down the grime on her face. 

The reinforcements had made it through the valley mostly unscathed, but for being nearly cut off and stranded. Ingrid saw Rodrigue had made it, attempting to give Felix a pat on the shoulder that he instinctively dodged. Claude met with Judith who looked worn and frail after five years of war. 

Everything felt dull and numb, like she was dreaming. She barely noticed until Marianne came to tend to her leg that the wound was still bleeding. 

When they arrived back at the monastery, Claude broke the news, Dimitri broke a chair, and Edelgard sat stoically and pronounced that Ashe’s noble sacrifice would not be forgotten. 

Ingrid hated her so deeply in that moment that she knew she would never recover from it. 

There was no body, but Dorothea let her into Ashe’s old chambers to find a few arrows and trinkets that they buried in a box out at the cemetery grounds. There were still books on his shelf, old favorites. She found another book, partially completed, in his own hand, hidden under the mattress. _The Romance of the World's Salvation_ , he had titled it. 

Dorothea rubbed her back as she shed a few more tears and Ingrid suppressed the poisonous desire to scream at her for letting Ashe turn to Edelgard in the first place, for still following Edelgard now. 

It rained at the end of the week. Ingrid went to muck stalls at the stable since the horses were all trapped inside due to the mud. She worked methodically, letting herself get lost in the simplicity of manual labor and burning muscles. 

As she finished up, returning the water bucket and shovel to the shed, she saw Claude was standing at the gate again, watching her. 

She had dirt on her face and straw in her hair probably, but she didn’t care anymore. Let him see her like this, let him look at her every weakness and vulnerability with perfect clarity. 

“Why are you watching me?” she asked as she approached the gate. His hair was wet with rain, some of the drops caught in his long lashes as they flickered down against his cheek. 

“I, uh, I just wanted to be sure you were alright,” he said, usually silver tongue appearing to stick in his mouth. 

“I’m alive,” Ingrid shrugged. “I’m still fighting. I think that’s the best we can get now.” 

“I hate this,” Claude said, the words rushing out like he couldn’t stop them. “I hate losing people and I hate that it will probably happen again. And I can’t stop it, no matter how hard I try.” 

“Can’t you, of anyone, find a way?” Ingrid said. She didn’t like how weary she sounded. “I thought you were a genius.”

“I used to think that too,” Claude said with the glimmer of a grin. Rain dripped over his lips, catching droplets in the soft curves of his smile. 

“We’re both fools, then,” Ingrid said and then she felt pain welling up in her chest. “I wish I could pretend that Ashe had died in some heroic sacrifice, believing in what he was doing. I wished the same for Glenn... I wanted so badly for him to have died without any regret. But the reality is that they both died with regrets and with so many questions.” 

“I think…” Claude paused. The sound of the rain grew deafening as it pelted down on both of them. “Everyone has questions. It’s good to question things. There is some strength in unity and certainty, but even more in doubt.” 

Ingrid looked at him, soaked in rain, trying to smile through his sadness, inexplicably here, again. And she wanted a moment of indulgence. 

Something selfish. Something sweet. Something just for her. 

She leaned forward and kissed him. He went still, and she almost pulled back, but then he drew her closer. She felt his hands shaking as he brushed wet strands of hair back from her face. 

She smiled against his mouth, knowing that the curtain between them had fallen, that they looked at each other unveiled, that he saw her, and she knew him in return. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Ashe, press F to pay respects. Just a reminder that I am planning to kill off the approximate number of characters to a normal FE3H run (because I like to make myself sad). Also Claude/Ingrid is one of my favorite rarepairs because I accidentally got their ending on my first playthrough and it just stuck with me. Next time, prepare for more Caspar/Annette content as Caspar makes his way across a river, as well as a little taste of some Lysithea/Linhardt. And it might be time to figure out where Flayn and Seteth ended up... 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your amazing comments! Comment more and I will bring you the delicious and highly coveted Teutates Herring that I know you crave...


	17. The Rose Colored River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caspar convinces Annette it is okay to make mistakes. Then he makes a mistake.

The holy mausoleum glowed faintly green, bathing it in a strange twilight despite the sun of afternoon outside. Caspar had never been sure why Edelgard had chosen to set herself up down among the tombs and relics. She’d given them an explanation about security and ancient wards, but he wasn’t sure he really bought it. 

At the end of the day, the emperor liked to keep her enemies close, and so she lurked beneath the cathedral. 

“Hey Edelgard!” he called out as he jogged down the stairs. “What did you need?” 

Usually, when Edelgard called on his skills, it meant a plan was going to be put into action. He was fine leaving the scheming and sneaking to the others. When they needed a building demolished or a guard post distracted, that was his moment to shine. 

Edelgard was standing beside a large table he’d carried down into the crypt a few years prior when they’d moved to the monastery. She had been barely recovered from her injuries then, only just able to walk with her back carefully braced, so he’d done most of the shoving and dragging. On the table, a large map of the Adrestian Empire was spread out and marked with a few of her coded symbols. 

“More training, Caspar?” she asked, taking in the sweat on his face and the rapid rising and falling of his chest. He shook his head, running a hand through the short spikes of his hair to brush some of the dust off. 

“Laundry actually,” he said, “Annette lost some sheets to the wind so I climbed up the old gutter to grab one from the roof, but then somehow I ended up going _through_ the roof to Petra’s old room, well, just my feet actually, and Ignatz was there helping her move some furniture or something so it took them a while to get me out, and, yeah…” 

Edelgard’s mouth twitched into a small smile, a rare sight. 

“I’m glad at least some of our old classmates are enjoying reconnecting,” she said with a knowing nod. “Particularly now that Linhardt has returned, it appears the other forces are warming to our presence here.” 

Linhardt had arrived back at the beginning of the month. He’d ridden in after a long trek from Bergliez territory, looking even taller and leaner than he had before. His hair had grown out and he wore that strange, almost shiny black fabric that the Agarthans favored. 

But as he slumped from his horse, waved a long written report in Petra’s face, and then fell peacefully asleep in a nearby bush, Caspar’s doubts about his old friend evaporated. 

Since then, Linhardt had been primarily occupied with some sort of long and complex therapeutic procedure of his own invention he was performing on Lysithea. Caspar hadn’t had much of a chance to talk to him given that he spent periods of approximately forty hours working before moving into deep hibernation. 

Linhardt had, however, spent that last couple of years in an Agarthan laboratory in Bergliez territory. He probably knew more about his father and brother than Caspar did. 

“So, where are we hitting next? We’ll have some serious fire power to bring to the table this time now that we’ve got those troops,” Caspar said, rubbing his hands together. 

“We paid a serious price for that strength,” Edelgard said, her face grim again. Caspar felt a dull anger flare inside of him as well. If he had just been there, at Ailell, maybe Ashe would still be with them. “I intend to use it wisely. I’ve gotten Claude to agree to an invasion of Bergliez territory. It’s the best target for expansion. We know your father is friendly to our cause, we’ve had informants embedded there for years who know the defenses, and it will give us access to the largest grain stores in Fódlan.” 

“And, uh, what about Dimitri?” Caspar asked doubtfully. 

While Caspar had faith in his own physical prowess, he couldn’t deny that the Faerghus king seriously creeped him out. He had seen the Huntsman’s work in Empire territory before, and even if he was no great lover of opportunistic Agarthan mercenaries, the sheer violence of it had been disturbing. 

“Oh I intend Dimitri to lead this mission, alongside yourself, of course,” Edelgard said. She tucked a strand of her white hair behind her ear and tapped a spot on the map. “While your father has been working with us, most of the people in his territory consider me either an Agarthan traitor or a dangerous heretic. The love people held for the Church of Seiros did not die with it, after all. Claude would be a safer option, but I need someone cautious to hold the monastery for us. Dimitri on the other hand carries something of the folktale about him. He can play our savior king, our holy hero… provided no one ever speaks with him.”

“He actually agreed to that?” Caspar said skeptically. 

“He accepted my offer to allow him to destroy the Agarthan garrison at Myrddin,” Edelgard said, gesturing to the map again. “I will merely be present as an anonymous soldier. Once we have the ability to transport troops and supplies over the river again, our resistance will go from an annoyance to a serious threat. All I need you to do, Caspar, is legitimize the attack. If the people hear word that the son of Count Bergliez is supporting King Dimitri’s conquest, they will rally to our cause and do most of our work for us.” 

“You got it, Edelgard, just point me in the right direction, and I’ll charge,” Caspar said, clapping one fist into his palm with a grin. “And, uh, if it’s all the same, could I not have to do much talking with Dimitri? He might be a king, but…” 

Edelgard nodded and looked briefly wistful. 

“I had hoped to build a world where monsters were no longer granted such power by virtue of birth,” she said. “But for now we must be patient and rely on his merit as a weapon.” 

“Alright then, I’ll go gather the troops,” Caspar said. “Anything else you need before I go?” 

“Would you mind speaking to Linhardt about joining the mission?” Edelgard said as Caspar turned to go. “He was reluctant, but no one knows the state of the territory as well right now.”

“Sure thing!” Caspar called back to her and he ran back up the stairs. 

He didn’t feel worried about the coming battle. He had trained with everything he had and he would give his best effort on the battlefield. Edelgard’s tactics hadn’t let him down yet and he was content to be her instrument. 

While he’d had to endure Ferdinand waxing poetic about the ‘shades of grey’ and the ‘subtle confluence of ideology’ and ‘delicate arts of perspective and compromise,’ Caspar had found the war to be pretty simple so far. Agarthans were bad, his people were good. Edelgard had been tricked, which was bad, but now she was good, which was good. 

Mistakes happened, right? So, all good? 

As he made his way across the grounds back to the infirmary where he suspected he would find Linhardt, he spotted Annette, finishing re-hanging the laundry. She was balanced dangerously on an overturned bucket, straining to finish pinning a flapping cloak. As he watched, the bucket began to tip, one edge lifting from the ground. 

Caspar jumped forward and caught her up by the legs before she could go over. She yelped at the sudden touch. 

“Caspar!” she gasped as she looked down to see him. He boosted her up a little higher, hoping she might take note of how steadily his arms could bear the weight.

“Hey Annette! Just in the knick of time again!” Caspar said. “Short people solidarity, right? Gotta lend a hand when you need one.” 

Annette laughed with relief and then clamped the final pin down onto the cloak. He let her gently back to the ground. 

“Sorry,” she said, adjusting the scarf tighter around her neck that concealed her broken tracker. “I was about to mess that up again if you hadn’t been there.” 

“Eh, you might have skinned a knee, that’s all,” Caspar said. 

Annette was always hard on herself. He broke things or flubbed tasks all the time, but they were honest mistakes. She, however, seemed to treat her own clumsiness like it was a personal moral failure. 

“I should’ve taken the time to get a better step stool,” Annette sighed. “But I was so distracted trying to work out plans for the march to the bridge, I just didn’t consider it.” 

“Oh, you’re coming as well!” Caspar said, feeling his spirits brighten a bit. Annette hadn’t had the chance to see him fight up close in a few years. He had a show to give her now. “Myrddin doesn’t stand a chance with both of us there! No matter what those Agarthans cook up for us-”

Annette’s face went abruptly pale. 

“Oh no,” she spun around, looking inexplicably at the sky. “What time is it? How long has it been in the oven? Ah, I’m sorry Caspar, I have to run!” 

She took off towards the dining hall at maximum speed. Caspar shook his head. If something was burning, he wasn’t sure sprinting would be enough to save it. 

He located Linhardt in the infirmary as expected. 

Before he entered, Caspar could hear his voice, apparently engaged with Lysithea is some sort of highly complex discussion of ‘hemomantic circulatory restoration’ and ‘Nabatean marrow extraction.’ When he opened the door, however, he found that despite the dry tone of their voices, Linhardt was actually sitting on the edge of her bed, holding one of her hands as he withdrew a long needle from her elbow. 

Lysithea looked weak and tired, but her face was resolute. She barely flinched as the needle left her skin and Linhardt quickly pressed a clean linen around the prick. 

“Oh, uh, sorry to interrupt, guys,” Caspar said, not sure if he should back out of the room. Lysithea waved him forward, looking faintly irritated. 

“No need to step so carefully around me,” she said coldly, “I’m more than used to the discomfort by now.” 

“Is it almost done?” Caspar asked. He doubted he would understand anything either of them said, but he might at least comprehend whether Lysithea was officially cured or not. 

“Her second Crest is nearly dormant. Once her bone marrow stops producing the corrupted arcane residual, she will be, in a sense, cured,” Linhardt said mildly. “Although I suspect it will take many more years to reverse the damage that’s already been done. Did you need something, Caspar?” 

“Edelgard sent me to talk to you about the mission,” Caspar said, still looking curiously at Lysithea who was leaning back into the pillows of the bed. “How long, though, until you’re in fighting shape?” 

“I can fight now,” Lysithea said, raising a single dangerous finger. “But… if I do activate the remaining Crest, I might pass out. Not ideal for the battlefield.” 

“Why don’t we take this discussion into the hallway?” Linhardt suggested. “Lysithea needs to sleep and recover her strength. An enviable position. I’m tempted to give myself a second Crest just to join her.” 

“Don’t even joke about it,” Lysithea warned him, although her eyelids were sagging. 

“I’ll have to find some reason,” Linhardt said thoughtfully. “My research on your case will be the project of a lifetime, after all. If we don’t find some excuse to rest…” 

Lysithea smiled faintly as Linhardt led Caspar out of the room. 

“Linhardt, you realize how that sounds, right?” Caspar whispered, scandalized. “You can’t just go around saying you want to spend your life sleeping with Lysithea!” 

“Can’t I?” Linhardt asked with a lazy smile. “I’m sure that would prove a fruitful source for knowledge.” 

“Linhardt!” Caspar gasped. “Cut it out, okay! I’m being serious!” 

“Alright then, if you want to bore me with our dear emperor’s words, why don’t we take our discussion to the common room,” he yawned, “at least there, I can sit down.” 

The way he said ‘dear emperor’ made Caspar fairly certain that he was not terribly happy with Edelgard. 

On that terrible day five years ago, it was hard to forget that Linhardt had not come with them at first. Before the Agarthans, he had probably been planning to go secret himself away in a discrete corner of Fódlan until Edelgard’s conquest had ended. And Caspar had not. He would have fought, and Linhardt would have run. 

In the common room, Linhardt flung his lanky frame into a chair and closed his eyes. 

“I promise, I’m listening,” he said unconvincingly. “Lecture away.”

“Edelgard wants you to come on the mission,” Caspar said, pacing around the room rather than sitting. 

“Oh good, this will be quick then,” Linhardt said. “No.” 

“Come on, we need you!” Caspar groaned. Trust Linhardt to make this difficult for him. Why did he have to be so lazy, even now in the middle of a war? “You know their defenses, you’ve spent years there! I’m the one who has to do the fighting, right? You’ll just be hanging back with Mercedes treating the wounded.”

“If this is a request and not a command, the answer is still no,” Linhardt said. “I don’t like battles. And I’m tired. I’ve done enough for Edelgard’s sake. Is it too much to ask for a bit of peace?”

“Peace?” Caspar scoffed. “That’s exactly why we have to fight now. You can’t just wander off before the job is done, Linhardt! I thought you’d changed, that you actually had decided to help, but I guess I was wrong.”

“I spent four years in an Agarthan laboratory,  _ helping _ ,” Linhardt retorted, his lip curling slightly as he spoke despite his relaxed posture. Linhardt had always been able to get under Caspar's skin, but this seemed deliberately infuriating. 

“Exactly! You got to cozy up and work on your research while everyone else has been fighting and working and bleeding,” Caspar shouted, unable to control the increasing volume of his voice. This was just so needlessly frustrating. 

“I hated it there,” Linhardt said, sitting up straight. His face had hardened suddenly, as though Caspar had just slapped him. “I _hated_ it.”

It was a look he’d never seen on his old friend before and it shocked Caspar into momentary silence.

“You think the Agarthans gave me a cozy research job?” Linhardt said viciously into the sudden silence. “I spent _four years_ there. I helped them drain blood from Crest-bearers until they were weak and shaking, helped them keep their prisoners alive so they could do it again the next day. I helped them drive children mad, make them sick, kill them sometimes when the experiments failed, just so they could raise a powerful army. And I did all of it because Edelgard swore to me that the information I could provide to her would put a stop to it. I hated it. And if you were ever my friend, you will not ask me to do it again.”

“I-” Caspar said slowly, not sure what to say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… I don’t think I understood.”   


“Back in school, you remember that I hated the sight of blood,” Linhardt said with a dark laugh. Caspar did remember. He’d thought it was ludicrous at the time. Imagine enrolling in the Officers Academy, but never wanting to be in a fight? “Well, I still despise the battlefield. But it’s far from the worst place I’ve seen now.” 

“Alright,” Caspar said, his body feeling like it was deflating as all the adrenaline of his anger faded. “I’ll tell her you can’t go. You have to be here for Lysithea, right?” 

Linhardt relaxed back into the chair, suddenly as languid and easy-going as though nothing had ever happened. 

“Thank you, Caspar. I mean that. Edelgard isn’t easy to deny,” he said, stretching his long arms over his head. “I had assumed you were here to force me.” 

“You really think I’d do that?” Caspar snorted. “I’m your friend, even if we’ve never seen eye to eye.” 

He took the rare opportunity to draw himself up to his full height and briefly tower over the sitting Linhardt. 

“You go do the fighting then,” Linhardt said, his benign smile vanishing as Caspar darted in to vigorously ruffle the top of his hair. 

“Myrddin won’t know what hit ‘em!” Caspar proclaimed as he left. 

This was what he’d trained for, after all. He hadn’t been born to rule or to manage a territory or serve as a spy or a courtier, and unlike Dorothea, he’d never aspired to. 

It was his job to fight and to protect people, and he was perfectly satisfied with that. He was never going to back down because he was tired of the pain, he would just work even harder until the battle was won. And if he lost, it would be his own fault for not getting stronger. 

All he had to do with Linhardt was shift his perspective a little. Instead of being a comrade in arms, now he was someone Caspar must protect. Whatever they might miss in valuable information, Caspar would take up the burden and keep everyone safe. 

He could bear the weight of that.

Over the course of the next few weeks, they rallied and provisioned themselves for a march to the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Caspar never went to most of the strategy meetings, but it seemed like Lorenz was handling the situation regarding their march through Gloucester territory. 

Apparently he and Claude were arranging a misdirect where he could pass bad information to the Agarthans suggesting that the army intended to attempt a siege on Derdriu. Meanwhile the Kingdom’s forces would slip through the unguarded territory along with Edelgard’s spies. 

There was probably more going on that Caspar didn’t understand. He kept seeing Hubert and Shamir slinking off, for example, to go on little missions that resulted in both of them returning at dawn, bloodied and silent. 

And of course, there was whatever Bernie was doing, but Caspar had never been privy to that. 

However, the morning for their departure finally came. Claude waved them off with his skeleton crew of soldiers left to hold the monastery in case they were attacked or forced into a retreat. Edelgard stood to the side, heavily armored and nearly impossible to distinguish from the other foot soldiers but for her violet eyes. 

Dimitri was at the front and the two of them were still engaged in a tense, circling war of ignoring one another. Caspar hoped the plan would work. Dimitri didn’t have a particularly heroic look about him currently with the shadows under his eye, the unkept hair, and smell of a man who preferred sleeping in the woods. 

Caspar peered through the assembled soldiers as the march began, wondering if Linhardt had made it out of bed in time to at least come wave. But there was no sign of him, no sign of his head sticking up a few inches above the crowd. 

“Goodness, who are you searching for?” a droll voice spoke from behind him. “You’re going to send yourself sprawling if you keep jumping around like that.” 

Caspar spun around and saw Linhardt, wearing a uniform and holding a travelling pack slung over one shoulder, blinking as innocently as if he’d been there all morning. 

“I knew you’d come!” Caspar whooped and punched him in the arm hard enough that he staggered. 

“Someone has to make sure you don’t get your head cut off,” Linhardt said and then gestured over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ve got a spot cleared in the provisions cart. If you can throw some bags on top of me, I ought to be able to catch a few hours of rest on the road.” 

The march through Gloucester territory seemed to go as well as it could. 

The armies did appear to be occupied searching the north for signs of an attack on Derdriu and the small towns that they did pass were too decimated by plague to be concerned with a long line of Kingdom soldiers. A few times they had to stop and fend off beasts, but most of them weren’t hungry enough to consider taking on an army. 

The bridge came into view as they rose at dawn, an impressive stone fortification on either side of the rushing water. In the early light, the Airmid river reflected pink and gold, its banks wide where they had descended from its white and frothing source up in the mountains. 

From the looks of it, there wasn’t a whole army manning the defenses, but rather the normal reserve. Wyverns circled in the sky and Caspar spotted artillery glinting along the walls. 

“Aren’t you at all nervous?” Annette’s anxious voice asked from beside him. She was bouncing slightly on her heels with tension as they surveyed the bridge. Her battalion was stationed behind his own, a group of Kingdom mages ready to sweep up any leftovers who survived his wrath. 

“Nope,” Caspar said. “We’ve got the better numbers and the element of surprise.” 

“I know the odds are good, but…” Annette looked away. “I make so many mistakes, all the time. If I make one with the laundry, the stakes are pretty low. But if I lead my battalion into danger, they could all die. How can I pay attention to everything out there, all the time?” 

“You can’t,” Caspar said. “That’s the truth. You will probably mess up at some point, the important thing is not giving up and trying to deal with the consequences.” 

“The last time I was in a battle,” Annette said, rubbing the side of her neck with the tracker. “I got this. My… Gilbert got captured because I didn’t spot a trap.”

Ah, that explained something, Caspar thought. Picking up on feelings wasn’t usually his specialty, but you’d have to be blind and deaf not to understand that Annette had some kind of unfinished business with her father. 

“Thinking like that never helps anyone,” Caspar said firmly. “Imagine what would happen if you hadn’t been there! If we both left right now, would it help anyone?”

“I guess you’ve got a point,” Annette said, her shoulder unclenching slightly. 

“If our hearts are in the right place, the good we can do will always outweigh the bad,” Caspar said. 

A hush fell over the waiting troops at that moment. 

Dimitri had stepped to the front of the army. He held his lance in hand, the massive point of it glowing faintly with power. He turned to face the troops and for a moment Caspar felt his heart swell, his pulse quicken, in anticipation of a rousing speech and a swift victory. 

“Go!” Dimitri shouted and then turned and started running for the bridge. 

Caspar hoisted the axe over his head. The speech left something to be desired, but he added to it with a wordless battle cry as they charged. 

The army rushed forth towards the fortifications, swarming down the hill towards the great bridge’s gate. As they did, Caspar spotted a few shapes out of the corner of his eye. Another battalion of men was on course to intercept them. A few shapes led the charge, one on a wyvern, all of them familiar. 

“Wait!” a voice called out, a voice that nearly rooted Caspar to the spot with memories. Dark memories of uniform violations and mandatory study hours. “You have troops incoming on the left flank from Lord Acheron. We spotted them marching early this morning!” 

It was Seteth. He was circling down on the back of a wyvern, spear in hand. 

Just behind him, Caspar made out the familiar luminous green hair of Flayn running to join them. Both of them along with their soldiers were oddly dressed, wearing clothes Caspar couldn’t place. And beside Flayn… 

“Dedue,” Dimitri spoke the name like he wasn’t sure he believed it, in the soft, strange voice that made Caspar’s skin crawl a little. As Caspar watched, the King of Faerghus twitched, like some invisible person had just startled him. 

But it was definitely Dedue. As he drew near, Caspar saw that his dark skin was covered in thin silver scars, like he’d been hit by shrapnel in an explosion of some sort. 

“Your highness,” Dedue said, immediately falling to one knee. Dimitri reached a hand out hesitantly and Caspar was close enough to see that his fingers were trembling as they extended towards Dedue’s cheek. 

“Dedue!” Annette yelled from behind Caspar and she ran forward to wrap the large man into a hug. Dimitri flinched back, but Caspar saw a look of relief pass over his face. “And Flayn!”

Annette nearly tackled the other girl as she came panting up beside them. 

“And… hi Seteth,” Annette finished meekly. “We heard you were gone, all of you, I thought you were dead!” 

“My countrymen rescued me from prison in Fhirdiad,” Dedue explained, getting back to his feet. “Flayn and Seteth sought sanctuary in Duscur as well. It has been a difficult journey to find you, your highness, I apologize.” 

“Please, as thrilled as I am for our fortunate reunion, we must attend to Lord Acheron’s reinforcements,” Flayn interjected. “There will be time enough later to share our story, for now let us and our friends from Duscur assist where we may!” 

“Very well,” Dimitri said. “We will slaughter anyone who sides with those revolting vermin. Take the bridge and spare no one!” 

The army rushed onto the bridge, now compressed into a dense column by the rushing water below. Ahead of them, the bridge’s gates stood closed, and beside them, a towering fort shadowed the cobblestones and water. 

Caspar gripped his axe with both hands and rushed forward into the fray as soldiers began to spill out from the gate towers towards the advancing army. 

The battle rage pounded in his ears and made his muscles feel charged with lightning and he swiped with the axe. His battalion ran headlong into heavy infantry and the air filled with the clang of blade on armor. 

He felt a blow ringing across his chestplate, the strength of it nearly making him stagger to his knees. 

But his legs were strong and his center of gravity was low. He kept on his feet and swung his own axe in a repost that cleaved deep into the neck of his enemy. 

Lights flashed overhead and the heavy infantry fell back as Annette’s mages burned through their armor easily with magic. Ahead of him, he saw Dimitri meet with a rush of cavalry, dodging their charge and then jerking a man from his saddle with the long blade of his lance. 

Caspar shouted to his men to move forward again towards a small fortification that in better times had probably been used to collect taxes from crossing merchants. As he did, an arrow caught him in the thigh, the point sinking deep through the armor and into the muscle. 

“Caspar, fall back!” The familiar voice of Edelgard called out to him, although her voice was muffled slightly under her helmet. “See to that leg and then take the rope bridge over to the fortress. It won’t go unmanned for much longer.” 

Caspar cursed under his breath, but obeyed. He let Annette and her mages pass him, guarded now by Ferdinand on horseback. The wound in his leg wasn’t serious, but leaving an arrow untended would make him weak from blood loss in only minutes. 

He fell back, hobbling and trying to hold the shaft steady to keep it from tearing at his muscle. When he reached the back of their forces, he saw Linhardt and a group of monks patching together soldiers in various states of injury. 

“Ah Caspar, I thought it was only a matter of time,” Linhardt said as soon as he saw him, pushing Caspar to the ground with surprising firmness so that he could begin extracting the dart from his thigh. “We’ve been lucky so far. The soldiers of Duscur cut off Acheron’s men before they even made it to the bridge.” 

Caspar yelped as Linhardt swiftly pulled the arrow from his leg, but relaxed as white magic flooded over the wound, closing the skin rapidly over the puncture and numbing the pain. 

“Yeah,” Caspar grunted as he pushed himself back to his feet. 

He glanced over at the fortress Edelgard had told him to check out. It was still empty, not even archers trying to pick at them from the windows. There was a heavy ballista across the rope bridge, but it appeared to be abandoned for now. 

“Looks like the Agarthans don’t even have their full forces here. You picked a pretty good battle, Lin!” 

“As long as that’s the only arrow I have to pull out of your leg today,” Linhardt sighed, “I guess that’s good enough.” 

“Alright! Put me in there, I’m ready to go!” Caspar said as Linhardt finished checking to see that his leg was steady. 

Caspar glanced back up at the empty fortress, then turned towards the main battle on the bridge again. He could probably make it back to the front and then smash his way through to the fortress from the other entrances nearer to the main gate. There was still no one manning the ballista. 

“Try not to be so reckless. Go for their knees, remember?” Linhardt said behind him. “My experiments suggest that for a person of your stature to win-”

Linhardt paused. 

“What?” Caspar asked, turning back around. “What do your experiments suggest?” 

Linhardt was looking down at his chest. 

A ballista bolt at least three inches wide was protruding from just under his sternum. He reached up a hand and touched it, fingers coming away red with his own blood. 

Slowly, he raised his head and looked at Caspar, his expression confused, eyes blinking rapidly. 

“More blood,” he said faintly. 

And then he collapsed, falling backwards onto the stones of the bridge. 

“Linhardt!” Caspar screamed, dropping to the ground beside him. He pressed his hands against the wound, but it was pointless, pointless, because there was still a piece of metal the size of a jousting lance sticking through him and… and… 

“Someone help him!” Caspar called out, but as he said it, another ballista bolt drove into the mortared walls with a clang and an explosion of dust. Men scattered to take cover, fleeing out of range or sheltering behind the low edges of the bridge if they could. “Linhardt, come on, you’ve got to heal yourself, okay, you’ve got to stop the bleeding a little before someone can get you, please!” 

Linhardt looked up at him, his brow furrowed and uncomprehending, like Caspar was shouting at him from somewhere very far away. 

“Come on!” Caspar shouted, pressing one of Linhardt’s hands to the wound in his chest. Linhardt groaned slightly as the enormous bolt moved and then he opened his mouth as blood spilled down his chin. “You’ve got to use your magic, Lin, please, just stay awake and try!” 

Linhardt took a breath and choked, his body shaking in Caspar’s arms. 

Caspar fumbled for the elixir at his belt, pouring the entirety of the precious vial over the wound, but even as the blood seemed to lessen, the hole in his chest was still too big. 

“No, no, no,” Caspar whispered desperately. “Don’t give up, you can’t! You’ve got to get back for Lysithea, remember? The research opportunity of a lifetime!”

Linhardt made a small sound, unintelligible as the blood seeped from his mouth. His eyelids closed and his finger’s clenched briefly around Caspar’s hand. 

And then they relaxed. 

His body went still. 

It had been, at most, a minute. 

Caspar blinked, as if he might wake up and find it was a dream or that time had spun backwards and he would be sitting on the bridge again letting Linhardt admonish him for taking an arrow in the leg. This time, he would notice the ballista, see the shadow of someone sneaking towards it, call out that everyone should run for cover, that they had to move the wounded out of range. 

But he opened his eyes and time had not run backwards as sure as the river beneath them had not. 

Linhardt lay in his arms, his head lolled back, his blood pooling beneath them. 

Caspar pulled him closer, tried to wipe it away. Linhardt _hated_ blood. He couldn’t stand the sight of it. When he woke up, Caspar had to make sure he was clean. 

With a hand, he tried to wipe away the blood that had spilled down his chin, but it was drying so fast, sticking to his hand. His hand was covered in blood. Both of them were covered in blood. 

Caspar closed his eyes. Just a few minutes, he prayed. Not even enough time to warn everyone. Just a split second to turn, to pull Linhardt down to the ground, to hear him grumble as the bolt passed harmlessly over their heads. ‘A little more warning next time’ he would gripe as he rolled over and they crawled to safety. 

But then he opened his eyes. 

Linhardt’s were partially open, his eyelids loose, his pupils staring up at the morning sky. Caspar tried to push them closed, but crimson stained his face wherever his finger’s touched. 

He was making it worse, he was hurting him. 

Please, Caspar thought, pressing his forehead against Linhardt’s. Please, Goddess, please just a single second. Let me take the hit instead. Let me jump in front of it. Let me accept the consequences for my mistakes, not him. Let me pay the price because I am disposable and he was… is valuable. 

Caspar felt a few tears slip through his eyes even as he squeezed them shut. He let them fall, blinking as the blurring shape of Linhardt’s still face swam before him again. 

The Goddess was not listening. 

He cradled the body more gently, supporting the back of his friend’s head and drawing him up so that the massive iron bolt through his chest would not drag against the ground. 

Linhardt needed to rest, hated being disturbed from his sleep. Caspar would stay there and protect him, this time _really_ protect him. 

Time passed and the river flowed on, the sun breaking over the horizon and turning its waters from pink to red to muddy brown. Caspar wasn’t sure how long he was huddled on the ground, only that his limbs grew stiff and his muscles shook where his arms were clamped around Linhardt. 

The sounds around him seemed muffled and strange. It was so loud. But then, no, it was quiet. 

“Caspar,” a voice spoke above him, firm and yet oddly careful, restrained. Caspar slowly raised his eyes. The sun glinted against armor and made him squint. There was a woman in armor standing above him. It took him a moment to recognize Edelgard. “Caspar, you need to let go of him.”

“He’s resting,” Caspar said, unsure what Edelgard was saying or what she wanted. 

“I need you to let him go now, Caspar,” Edelgard said again, her hands slowly beginning to push his away. Linhardt sank towards the ground. 

Caspar tightened his grip. Edelgard’s armor was spattered in dark reddish brown, her gauntlets soaked in it, like she’d plunged her arm through a man’s chest. 

“He doesn’t like blood,” Caspar insisted, pulling back away from her. Edelgard closed her eyes, as if he’d hit her. 

“Caspar, please,” Edelgard said after a moment, and her careful calm began to fracture slightly. “It was my fault. I should have given the order sooner or sent more soldiers with you. It was my responsibility.” 

“He has to help Lysithea,” Caspar said, trying to make her understand when she so clearly did not. “He has to get back. He can’t be here.” 

“I will help her, I swear it,” Edelgard said and, for the first time in their acquaintance, he heard her voice break. “I will finish his work. Caspar, let go. Let me bear this burden for now.” 

Caspar’s hands relaxed, his body going limp as exhaustion suddenly washed over him. How long had he been sitting there? 

He looked around. There was no more fighting. Men were bringing carts across the bridge of the wounded, collecting the arms and gold from the dead. Distantly, he saw the hulking shape of Dimitri limping across the fallen corpses like a graveyard specter. 

His stomach turned. 

It was like he was seeing the bridge for the first time. The smell of rotting flesh and punctured intestines and fear. Flies already swarming as the day grew hot. Blood in sticky pools congealing on the stone. 

Edelgard lifted Linhardt’s body into her arms very gently, as though he were an infant, but for the spike of metal still stuck through him. She nodded and from behind her Petra appeared and took Caspar by the arm, lifting him to his feet. 

“Get him to the tent with the wounded,” Edelgard said in a low voice. 

“He is not seeming to be injured, I believe, it is only blood from-” Petra began. 

“Take him there,” Edelgard said again, her teeth gritted. “And get… get Annette if you can. Stay with him.” 

Petra nodded silently and pressed on Caspar’s back so that he took a few steps forward with her. 

As they walked across the bridge, Caspar’s eyes strayed back to the fortress, to the faint gleam of sun on the ballista. 

It had been an honest mistake. 

But if he hadn’t been there to make it, Linhardt would have been at Garreg Mach, enjoying his well-earned peace. 

Caspar closed his eyes as he stumbled through the bodies, letting Petra lead him blindly. He said a final silent prayer to the goddess. 

Turn back time. Start it all over. Turn it back five years so this would never have happened. Turn it back ten so he could never enroll in the academy and take a life. Turn it back so he had never been born, superfluous and small in the grand scope of things. 

Just turn it back and uncreate all of this. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. 
> 
> Next up, a confrontation happens at Gronder Field and we finally discover what Bernie has been up to all this time... 
> 
> Beloved commenters, I thank you! In exchange for future comments, I will restore and polish the neglected Saint's statues in your honor.


	18. Blood of the Eagle and Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People have often called Bernadetta paranoid. In a war, however, sometimes paranoia is warranted.

The pitcher plant was a marvellous sight. It speckled the swamps around them, light green shot through with striking lines of red. The plants were completely still, only bobbing occasionally in the breeze, a faint sweet aroma wafting up from their depths. To an insect, they would be enticing, but as a fly delicately alighted on the edge of one, the slippery sides sent it plunging down into the pool of water within. 

All totally still. The plant fed and didn’t even need to move. 

Pitcher plants were also notable for their ability to grow in poor, acidic soil. After years of rain shot through with volcanic poison, the swamps around the Airmid river were filled with pitcher plants. 

This was the first time that Bernadetta von Varley had left Garreg Mach monastery in approximately four years. It was the first time since then she’d been without walls to guard her, without doors to slip behind, or shadowed passages to duck into. As they marched across Imperial territory, there were only wide fields and open skies for miles and miles. 

And so Bernadetta looked at the pitcher plants and tried not to start panicking. 

When they made camp for the night, Bernadetta was the first to set up her tent. She’d been practicing for weeks to ensure she could do it faster than even the experienced campaign soldiers. 

A tent wasn’t as good as a room, there was space under the walls for crying out loud, but it was something. Anything to keep herself concealed. 

Then as night finally fell, Bernadetta crept out by the cover of darkness. Most of the soldiers weren’t asleep yet; they were gathered in groups around campfires eating their rations. 

But in the dark, she was nearly invisible, almost perfectly silent. S he stepped with practice over sticks and watched them from the shadows like she was just some trick of the flickering firelight. This was her battlefield now. 

She picked her way through the camp, circling the edges to watch the guards on duty before making her way deeper, dodging and rolling to keep her path hidden. By the large officer’s tents in the center she saw Hubert making his way back from some unspoken mission, but although his eyes carefully searched the darkness, even he did not spot her. 

On a whim, she paced through the tents of the Kingdom nobles, but soft breathing told her that Felix had already gone to sleep. She sat outside for a moment, the thin fabric the only barrier between them. 

Then she wished him sweet dreams and silently continued. 

The newcomers might be an issue. She crouched behind a few low brambles and watched the Duscur reinforcements for an hour. Dedue was tense, pensive, and distracted. Annette came to join them, but her posture showed her to be at ease. Upset, clearly, mourning, clearly, but not suspicious. 

Flynn had put a hand on her shoulder in a way that was natural, not performative. Bernadetta listened to the conversation, but their questions were only for each other’s feelings, not schedules or plans or numbers. 

Eventually, Bernadetta left them for the night. She took soft steps past another few fires. 

Sylvain and Dorothea sat beside the dying embers of one, drinking the last of a wineskin together. She caught the murmured sounds of their voices. 

“You’ll never believe what happens next, though,” Sylvain was recounting, his voice animated and unguarded. “Remember that locket she found on the carriage floor in chapter four? Well, Lord Dunvallo thinks she stole it, at first, but his seneschal admits that it has been missing from the treasury for years, and she ends up being named the secret lost heir of House Camlann! And she just has to go with it! She tells them all a story about a secret passage and how she lost her memories falling from a running horse and Lord Dunvallo totally buys it!” 

Dorothea laughed with delight.    


“You have to let me read these!” she begged. “There’s just no way she’ll ever escape after that! Oh, if there was still an opera, this would be the most coveted role of the season!” 

“Well, I can only read them a few pages at a time when Felix leaves his door unlocked,” Sylvain sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Who knows where he finds them, but he can be a bit touchy about other people borrowing his possessions.” 

Bernadetta clapped a hand over her own mouth to stop herself from screaming in horror. 

She had left those pages for Felix’s eyes only! He wasn’t even supposed to know where they came from, and now Sylvain was going around telling people all about the Lord Dunvallo plotline? The prose in those chapters was unedited garbage! 

Forcing herself to keep moving, Bernadetta snuck back a few paces and waited until her heart had stopped pounding with embarrassment before continuing on with her rounds. 

Most of the soldiers were rolled up in blankets and asleep now, but a few of the drunker ones or the ones about to go on guard duty were still up. Smoke hung in the air as campfires were doused and Bernadetta faded even further into the dark. 

“-wonder about him letting in those traitors from Duscur, though,” a man’s voice floated in the air nearby. Bernadetta turned to watch a few Kingdom swordsmen sitting down and stretching their legs as though they’d just finished a patrol. “He claims he wants revenge, but why doesn’t he start there?” 

The swordsman who had spoken was sitting on a low stump while his companions were passing a flask around. He wore his sword still strapped to his hip even though the point of it dragged awkwardly on the ground when he moved. 

Bernadetta watched. The other guards had unbuckled their gauntlets and were rubbing red lines on their skin where the second-hand equipment they’d stolen from Kronya’s army rubbed tight or loose. 

Not that one swordsman though, the one with sparks of hate in his voice. He kept his armor on. 

It was time to go get Edelgard. 

Bernadetta didn’t often see her former house leader. She had her task and she only needed Edelgard’s help if she actually found something. 

In the first years of the war, Bernadetta had gone to Edelgard far more often, and she had been wrong far more often. Her instincts made her bristle at all of Edelgard’s spies, who were naturally cagey and tightlipped about their business. She worked herself up over little moments of awkwardness, dropped gloves, and itchy collars. 

But with practice and the occasional confirmation about what her father would have called ‘hysterical paranoia,’ Bernadetta got better at her job. And so she only had to go speak to Edelgard every few months when there was a real problem. 

When Bernadetta arrived at the emperor’s unassuming tent, she was still awake, drinking a pot of tea and speaking in a low whisper to Hubert. Bernadetta caught some of their words without meaning to. Her impulse to listen in was instrictive now. 

“Soldiers at Fort Merceus said he rode in from Enbarr as soon as Myrddin fell,” Hubert murmured. “He is planning to lead an army to retake the bridge personally. I suspect his presence is meant to intimidate us into fleeing back to the alliance before Count Bergliez has finished mustering the people.” 

“We cannot face him in battle,” Edelgard sighed. “But we cannot pull back without risking a catastrophic loss. Shamir should return soon with word from Claude about reinforcements.” 

“Um, Lady Edelgard?” Bernadetta whispered, poking her head through the flap of the tent. Hubert started slightly, one hand raised to begin a conjuration, but Edelgard grabbed his wrist when she recognized Bernadetta. 

“How sure are you?” Edelgard said without needing an explanation. 

“Pretty sure,” Bernadetta said. “Just one, I think. He was with other guards, but they were drunk.” 

“Hubert, my armor,” Edelgard said, standing up. 

It was Edelgard who marched across the darkening campsite, led by Bernadetta’s occasional taps and soft whispers. Bernadetta never did the confrontations by herself. Edelgard brought her best guards and all Bernadetta had to do was watch and wait. 

Let the fly slip over the edge on its own. Keep still. 

“Good evening,” Edelgard said, stopping at the edge of the circle of swordsmen. Wearing full battle armor and openly holding an axe in her hand, she looked intimidating to even the finest soldier. The men went silent as soon as they saw her. 

“What do you want?” one of the soldiers finally asked. Edelgard smiled tightly. 

“Your friend here is making some incendiary comments,” she said lightly. “Perhaps he’s had too much to drink.” 

The swordsman scowled at that. He still wore his blade hooked to his belt. 

“I haven’t touched a drop,” he said. “And I’m off duty.” 

Edelgard rested the head of her axe on the ground and leaned against it. 

“Is that true?” she asked, as though making casual conversation. “Does your friend here avoid the bottle?” 

“He does tonight,” one of the other Kingdom men answered, still looking defensive. 

“He’s been serving House Fraldarius for years, surely you all know him pretty well,” Edelgard said with a shrug. “Since you first joined the cause five years ago, have you ever gotten drunk on the job?” 

“Never,” the swordsman answered, his fists clenching at his sides. 

“Odd answer,” Edelgard replied quickly. “Seeing as my friend Hubert has informed me that you only took up the sword after the harvest failed on your family farm last fall.” 

The swordsman huffed something inarticulate, one hand slightly loosening the blade in its sheath. 

“I never got drunk as a farmer either,” the swordsman finally snarled. “And if you’re not my captain, I don’t answer to you, Imperial whore.” 

“What in the Goddess’ name are you talking about, Bernard?” another of the soldiers interrupted. “You said you were a smith before the war.” 

“Oh dear,” Edelgard said, “grab him.” 

Her guards had the swordsmen by the arms before he could draw. Hubert stepped forward from the darkness and knelt in front of him. 

“If you want to keep your life,” he said silkily, using the point of a blade to begin slicing through the straps of the man’s breastplate, “I would recommend you start talking.” 

“This is unjust persecution,” the swordsman shouted, apparently trying to attract attention to his cause in hopes of starting a commotion. “I did nothing wrong!” 

“If you intend to be difficult,” Hubert said, unphased, pulling back the armor and slicing through the thin linen shirt beneath, “save us some time and stop your crying. You can either talk to me and keep this body, or you can escape and lose everything but your hunger.” 

Bernadetta saw as Hubert’s knife pushed away the edges of the fabric that the swordsman did indeed have a long, straight scar down the middle of his chest, fairly recent by the looks. 

“You’re insane,” the swordsman shouted again, “I got wounded, okay? When Lord Fraldarius hears what you’ve done, he’ll-” 

But before he could finish the sentence, Bernadetta saw a reddish glow flare beneath his skin, outlining his ribs for a moment. The man screamed, convulsive in the guard’s grip. 

Then black tendrils burst forth from the incision, ripping through the stitches and twining up the man’s neck, covering his face as his jaw cracked and elongated. 

Sharp teeth burst forth from his gums as the black snaked up and over his eyes. He thrashed, sending the Imperial guards struggling to hold his swelling arms flying back.

Edelgard’s axe flashed in the firelight and the half-transformed beast head fell to the ground with a heavy, wet, thump. 

The other Fraldarius soldiers had scrambled back, paralyzed with horror. 

“Search for your friend’s body when we return to the monastery,” Edelgard said, prodding the misshapen form on the ground with her foot. “It will probably be hidden in the woods, near a place he stopped for a break or went out on his own. The Agarthans don’t bother to bury them very deep.” 

Hubert drew his glove up and wrinkled his nose as he fished around in the creature’s chest to withdraw the glowing fragment of Crest Stone. 

“Correct again, little flytrap,” he said into the dark, his eyes scanning, but never alighting, on where Bernadetta remained hidden. “The day an imposter earns your closely guarded trust will be a dark day indeed for humanity.” 

The next morning all the officers were called for a strategy meeting. 

Bernadetta considered trying to dodge Hubert, who would almost certainly enforce her presence, but the thought of being chased through the camp for hours sounded even more stressful than attending the meeting, so she relented and showed up on time. 

She wished the Kingdom officers would stop staring at her. It was probably the first chance most of them had to get a look at her. 

At the monastery, her secure home territory, she had practice at going unnoticed, but out on campaign there were no secret compartments for her to hide in or vents for her to press an ear to when she wanted to know what was going on. 

Felix wasn’t staring at her though, which was nice. He hadn’t even tried to search for her back at the monastery. 

When he’d started leaving out the food or the gifts, she’d suspected an ambush, a baited trap, a net ready to drop. But he kept his eyes carefully averted when she did snatch his offerings and when he looked back to see the empty plates, he allowed her to see one of his rare smiles. 

Occasionally, he would open the window of his chamber and talk to her, self-consciously unaware if she was there or not. But she always was. 

And so she’d started to leave him gifts in return. He didn’t care for sweets or flowers, which left her with few ideas, but for the silly written pages of her stories. The last time she’d shown the pages to anyone, her father had flung them into the fire along with the rest of her ‘childish toys.’ She’d half-expected Felix to do the same. 

Thus began the series of disastrous events that led to the discovery of Lord Dunvallo and his hapless lost heiress. 

Dimitri was last to arrive at the meeting and Bernadetta carefully observed the way Felix’s jaw tightened when his king threw back the flap of the tent. She had spent so long watching people for signs of Agarthan impersonation, it had become a habit to note every reaction, every tick, every tell. 

Dimitri chose a place between Rodrigue Fraldarius and Dedue, while Felix had positioned himself across from his father, between Sylvain and Ingrid. 

If Bernadetta was the pitcher plant, Felix was the cactus. He was so sharp on the outside, so hostile even to his friends, but inside he was soft and even sweet. And, she thought, extending her mental greenhouse, Edelgard would certainly be the rose. Soft petals, sharp thorns. 

“We are about a half day’s march from Gronder field.” Rodrigue began the meeting after Dimitri merely barked a sharp, bitter laugh at Rodrigue’s bow. “That is likely to be where the Agarthan forces will meet us if they have set out to reclaim the bridge.” 

“Our spies brought a report last night that may change our objective,” Edelgard said, shifting the control over the discussion immediately to her side. “Byleth Eisner is said to be in command of the army.” 

At the sound of his name, Bernadetta felt her knees go weak. She still remembered the Battle of the Eagle and Lion five years before, how they’d all scattered into the woods and hidden for hours. 

The demon of her nightmares was now called the Reborn King of Liberation, the divine savior of Fódlan, the holy restorer of Agartha. If Byleth was coming, Bernadetta intended to run all the way back to the monastery in one night if she had to, to lock every gate and every door, to barricade herself so deeply in the monastery’s catacombs that no one would ever find her again. 

“Good,” Dimitri said, folding his arms and staring at Edelgard in what was clearly a challenge. “Then I’ll finally have another chance to choke the life from him.”

“If you actually believe that, you’re a fool as well as a lunatic,” Edelgard snapped. “Byleth Eisner is the most dangerous person currently alive in Fódlan right now. We cannot beat him in a battle. Our only option is to slow his army and give Lord Bergliez time to cross the bridge. We must be prepared to retreat at speed as soon as he takes the field.” 

“If you fear the demon, Edelgard, then run back into his arms and I will end you both in the same strike,” Dimitri said dismissively. Hubert, worryingly, was shifting something concealed inside of his sleeve. 

“I agree with his majesty,” Rodrigue spoke over Edelgard as she opened her mouth to retort. “If we can manage to defeat Byleth here, it will be worth all the soldiers we have. Without their puppet king, the Agarthans will lose a critical anchor of their regime.” 

“Foolish old man,” Felix scoffed. Whenever his father spoke, it was as though he was being swarmed by stinging insects until he snapped. “Always so determined to choose whose life gets thrown away in the name of the crown.” 

Rodrigue closed his eyes at the remark, like he couldn’t bear the sight of his son’s face. 

“We cannot end him here, no matter how much blood we give in exchange,” Edelgard insisted. “We cannot surprise him. We cannot trap him. He will outplay us every time and anyone who crosses blades with him will die. Even if Claude arrives with reinforcements, there is no victory against Byleth, only mitigated loss.” 

“Another dangling scrap, I see,” Dimitri said and then laughed in a way that made even his own people cringe. “Fine. I’ll snap my jaws. Bait the beast, Edelgard, what is your secret? What do you want in exchange?” 

By the way Edelgard did not contradict him, Bernadetta surmised that the mad king of Faerghus might actually be sharper than he initially appeared. 

The man might spend most of his days pleading with the ghosts in his head, but he could also apparently spot when Edelgard knew something she didn’t want to give up without assurances. 

“I want full command of the field at Gronder,” she said, making a few of the Kingdom officers begin shaking their heads. “Not over yourself, I would not presume, but all of our combined soldiers.” 

“Your majesty, this is unacceptable, your men trust that they follow _your_ commands in battle,” Rodrigue protested at once. 

“I will consent to it,” Dimitri said, ignoring his advisor utterly. “Now speak.” 

“Very well,” Edelgard nodded. “Byleth Eisner is not entirely the work of the Agarthans, however much use they have gained from him. He is Rhea’s creation.” 

“This is nonsense,” Ingrid said, shaking her head at once. “We’ve all seen Byleth before. He has the same hair as you, Edelgard. And Jeralt confirmed that he’d been taken by mages allied with Solon during the attack on Remire village.” 

“I never said the Agarthans did not alter him,” Edelgard said, “but perhaps you have forgotten our long ago meeting where Leonie clearly indicated that Jeralt feared that Rhea had done something to his stillborn child. Whatever she did, that is the source of his unnatural power. Recall that I also bear the Crest of Flames, but I have never dodged every arrow shot at me or hung your king up by his neck.” 

“Ah, yes, at the Synod,” Mercedes said and Annette beside her clapped a hand to her own forehead with an audible smack. Bernadetta had noted that Mercedes often veiled her insight behind a pretense of baffled concern. “I don’t understand. Why would Lady Rhea do such a thing? The Agarthans wanted her killed, so clearly they were not allied.”

“It’s obvious isn’t it?” Edelgard said, “the Church of Seiros never had any qualms about experimenting on humans, giving them Crests, or enhancing their abilities, so long as they were the only ones able to do it. Was it not the blood of Saint Seiros herself that imbued my ancestors with Crests? Rhea was able to give Byleth abilities the Agarthans never could have dreamed of. If they had access to such power, why would they not give it to one of their own?” 

“If you want us to believe this,” Rodrigue said sternly, “we will require more proof than your word alone.”

“I can confirm it,” Dedue spoke unexpectedly. He had been silent, attending only to Dimitri until that point. “Do not ask me how, but I can confirm it. The Church did have the power to imbue high ranking cardinals with Crests or to extend their lifespans in the manner of the Agarthans.” 

Apparently even Rodrigue could not find a counter to that.  Bernadetta knew that all the rest of them were probably putting together what Dedue implied. 

He had, afterall, spent most of the war with Seteth and Flayn. 

“So tell us, then, about this power,” Dimitri said abruptly. He seemed irritated by the waiting, as though the longer he had to stand in Edelgard’s presence, the more he unravelled. 

Bernadetta noted that his remaining eye kept straying to glance at the empty air over Edelgard’s left shoulder more often than seemed normal. He fought off a visible shiver as she watched him, like something freezing cold had just slid down his neck. 

“I suspect your lords will call me deceptive when I say it. I did not believe myself at first,” Edelgard said and as she paused, there was something breathless and slightly anxious in her voice. “I believe Byleth Eisner has the ability to see our actions before they happen. To.. change time, as you might say. There is no recorded Crest that should grant him such an ability, I know, and yet… and yet when he came to kill me he told me aloud my every plan to escape just as I thought of it. That is why I will not face him on the battlefield. He can only be beaten if every possible action is accounted for, without any gamble or uncertainty.” 

“A very convenient excuse for you to assume control of Kingdom forces,” Rodrigue said coldly, then turned to Dimitri. “Your majesty, I ask you as your humblest servant of many years, please do not allow your men to be used like this. This woman has deceived us before, she will not lead your people as she should.” 

“What does it matter,” Dimitri growled, rubbing one of his temples. “So long as their spears point towards Agarthan throats? They can follow the scheming shadow emperor or they can follow a walking corpse. Once they join the rest of the dead, they will still cry out for the same blood in repayment.”

He walked out of the tent without another word. As soon as he was gone, shouting exploded on every side of the table. 

Felix rolled his eyes and followed Dimitri out. Bernadetta seized the moment before Edelgard could tell her to stay. 

Outside of the tent, Felix stood waiting as though he had been expecting her to join him. His long dark hair was swept back from his face, making the streak of white a marbled swirl on the back of his head. He hadn’t talked about that yet, even when he probably thought she wasn’t listening. 

“Those idiots would rather fight a war with each other if they had the chance,” he remarked as she stood slightly behind him. “I don’t know what to believe about this time reversing madness.” 

“Um, Felix?” Bernadetta said, her voice coming out as a squeak despite her attempt to keep it from trembling. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” 

“About what?” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. 

“This is the first time we’ve actually seen each other in five years,” Bernadetta said, her face burning as she said it. “Oh no, why am I saying this now? This is terrible timing, stupid Bernie, what are you doing? You’re bored with this, I’m sorry, that’s why you’ve been giving out those stories to Sylvain, to make fun of me, to make sport of me!” 

“I… what?” Felix asked, blinking at her as she spiralled. “If Sylvain is sneaking into my room again, I’m going to actually kill him.” 

“So, you didn’t let him read it?” Bernadetta asked timidly. Felix shook his head. 

“Why would I?” Felix asked sharply. Bernadetta felt herself wilting. She had been annoying him, then, just filling his room with her silly papers. 

“I’m sorry, I’ll stop-” she began to say, but he made a frustrated sound in his throat. 

“I can’t… I don’t say things well,” he said, turning around suddenly. It was difficult not to flinch as he looked directly at her. “I just meant that… I like the battle scenes. The heroine’s fighting style is interesting and her tactics are unusual. And I like… I like that you leave them for me.” 

“Oh,” Bernadetta said, an entirely different heat flooding her cheeks. 

“And it’s nice to see you again.” 

The day of the battle was a rare sunny one. 

Bernadetta had been stationed in a grove of trees with her archers, rather than on the fortification at the center to control the ballista. Edelgard had ordered her to send flaming arrows at the fortress if Byleth took the field. He would, she assured them, see it coming, but the smoke would prevent his forces from firing on them while they made an escape. 

The Agarthan troops were visible long before they arrived at the field. The flat plains of Berliez territory made it easy to see an approaching column of troops at a distance. 

Bernadetta was near the front of their position, able to see where the clash would happen well, but hopefully go unnoticed with her cover. She saw Felix across the field near the wooden fortress, stoic and sharpening the blade of his sword as they waited. 

Soon the Agarthans grew close enough that Bernadetta could hear the clang of metal as they marched. 

She had to do this for everyone, she reminded herself. There was no home to return to if she didn’t fight. While she might usually prefer to flee from her enemies, she had found herself surprisingly capable of violence when she was cornered. 

Distantly, Bernadetta heard Edelgard’s voice cry out a command. The armies rushed forward. Bernadetta aimed her bow high and released a volley that fell just as the lines clashed. 

The beginning of the battle was furious chaos. Bernadetta watched carefully from the trees, sending volleys whenever her allies were clear, and picking off soldiers trying to rush her position when she couldn’t find an opening. Defend your base, she told herself, don’t let anyone come in and take you. 

The last time she’d seen her own father, she’d been tied up and shoved in the back of a carriage, the bag over her head removed for just a moment. 

Imagine if back then she’d had the strength to pull back a bowstring and force him back. She was unstoppable now. 

Nearby her position, Bernadetta watched Ferdinand get battered back by dark mages. The back of his head was stained red as his horse reared and panicked under the onslaught. 

Bernadetta called for her archers to help him, but they were occupied shooting up at the waves of wyvern riders swooping overhead. 

A crack of dark miasma sent Ferdinand flying as his horse collapsed beneath him. Bernadetta watched as he hit the ground, skidding over rocks until lying in a heap of odd angles. She kept firing, firing until her arms trembled and her arrows were nearly spent, but the Agarthans kept coming. 

Ferdinand’s head lifted slightly. One arm reached out, dragging uselessly at the thin soil as he tried to pull himself back. 

An armored knight stood over him and Bernadetta’s arrow glanced harmlessly off of his shield as he raised a mace, ready to crush Ferdinand’s skull. 

Something hit the knight from the side with enough force that his armor crumpled inward. Hilda was standing there, an enormous glowing axe in her hand, covered in blood. 

“You can’t handle my best!” she screamed, her high girlish voice at odds with her heaving chest and muscular arms as she whirled the axe again. Agarthan soldiers went sprawling as she hit them, as though they weighed no more than tufts of dandelion seed. 

“Hilda?” Ferdinand said, stirring faintly from the ground. “You…” 

“I’ve got you,” she said, scooping him up into her arms like a young bride, although he was fully armored and probably weighed a few hundred pounds. “Anyone tries to touch him, you asked for it!” 

“How?” Ferdinand asked, clearly dazed. 

“Oh, Claude got your message,” Hilda said, already beginning to run back to get Ferdinand to safety. “I didn’t do much, really. Fighting is just not my forté.” 

Bernadetta lost sight of them as Hilda charged to the rear. But Claude’s forces had clearly arrived. Overhead, Almyran riders had met the Agarthan wyverns in a clear show of superior skill. Bernadetta saw that Ignatz’s arrows had joined her own. 

The Agarthan line was thinning, their numbers failing as the three houses fought together as one. Dimitri had smashed through the center of their army, leaving them scattered and disorganized as soldiers clashed across the field. 

“Hold!” someone bellowed from behind her, the cry repeating as it spread through their ranks. “Pull back!” 

A figure had left the ruins of the small stone tower at the edge of the field. White hair shone in the sun, but now his brow was encircled with a crown. 

He walked slowly through the ranks of his soldiers and the lines of their army stepped back in unison, the armies falling away from one another as Byleth approached the center of the field. 

“Ready the fire,” Bernadetta whispered to her archers, preparing the arrow she’d coated in tar and saved for that purpose. 

But before they were lit, Bernadetta heard a cry go up from the Fraldarius ranks. Rodrigue had spurred his horse forward and flung a javelin towards the Ashen Demon. 

It deflected away, a faint shimmer of black and violet briefly visible around him as the spear changed course in the air. Distantly, Bernadetta heard the sound of Byleth laughing. 

“A pathetic attempt,” Byleth said. He reached out a hand and lazily accepted a simple iron blade one of his soldiers put into it. “Care to try again?”

“I will,” Rodrigue replied, drawing his own sword from his side. “We all will. You will have to slay every last one of us if you intend to survive.” 

Bernadetta felt her mouth go dry. 

Rodrigue was too far forward, unsupported. Even if Byleth didn’t kill him, he would be mobbed and surrounded before he could escape. Bernadetta nocked her arrow, the tip not yet lit by flame. 

Except Byleth would know if she tried to shoot him. He would step out of the arrow’s path before she even loosed it. 

Rodrigue’s horse leapt forward, adding power to his strike as he swung the blade. Another burst of dark energy curled off of Byleth in a wave of force that blasted Rodrigue’s arm backwards with such power that the blow never landed. 

Instead, Byleth brought the iron sword down and Bernadetta saw blood blossom from the end of Rodrigue’s arm as his hand was severed from his body. 

He fell from his horse, clutching the injured limb to his chest with his remaining hand. Bernadetta heard a wordless cry of rage from Dimitri who had also stopped his retreat and now crouched like a predatory animal about to pounce. 

Bernadetta couldn’t think. She should aim for the fortress, burn it as Edelgard had planned, cover their retreat. But Rodrigue would die. Dimitri would die. 

Both of them would be caught in Byleth’s vanguard and their mass of spears, impaled like prey dropped among the thorns. And her shot would be wasted. Byleth would know it was coming. 

He would, wouldn’t he? But…

But why hadn’t he positioned those wyvern riders better to cut off Claude’s reinforcements? 

And he hadn’t really dodged Rogridue’s strike, had he? He had a shield of some sort, a shield of dark magic. 

Which was wrong. 

If Bernadetta knew one thing in the world it was that people could not be trusted. Not even the ones you already thought were bad. 

She drew back the longbow, planting it in the ground and angling it up to make the distant shot. Then she released the string. 

“Come on, princeling,” Byleth said, flipping the sword up and preparing to drive it down into Rodrigue where he lay. “Try to stop-” 

He stumbled backwards. 

An arrow protruded from his left eye. The soldiers around him staggered back as well, as disturbed as if they themselves had been shot. Then he collapsed to the ground. 

And Dimitri did charge the lances. They fled before him. 

“Don’t fire on the fortress,” Bernadetta yelled to her battalion, waving her arm frantically to catch their attention. “Fire on the Agarthans, concentrate everything on them. They’re retreating!” 

The Agarthan army was drawing back, panicked at the sight of their fallen commander. As they did, the Kingdom soldiers began to break with Edelgard’s order to retreat, reforming their lines and ensuring a route of the field as the enemy fled across the plains. 

Bernadetta fired until her arrows were gone and the last soldiers had passed from her range and then she broke from the bushes, collecting all the unbroken arrows she could where they had fallen. 

Rodrigue was still lying on the ground, his face pale as blood stained the front of his armor where the stump of his hand was pressed. Bernadetta knelt and helped him to pour a vulnerary over the wound, the arcane solution barely enough to momentarily seal his veins and prevent him from bleeding out.

Dimitri was kneeling over the other body on the ground, glancing up with his single eye to watch the Agarthans retreat. 

Bernadetta snuck up behind him to look. 

Her arrow stuck through one of the corpse’s eyes, but it was a strange corpse. It has a large black eye, dark fluid now draining from it. A familiar bulbous head, veins standing out dark in the yellowy pale skin. The white hair on his head was wispy, barely covering the forehead. It was a familiar face, but it was no longer Byleth’s face. 

It was Solon. 

“What is happening, I thought we were retreating!” Claude’s voice called down as he landed his wyvern nearby and leapt from the saddle, sprinting towards them. More and more of the officers were running to join them and regroup now that the original plan had apparently been changed. “Why are they retreating?” 

“It wasn’t Byleth,” Bernadetta said, noticing Claude’s head tilt as he saw her and took a moment to even recognize her. She gestured to the man on the ground. “It was a trap.” 

Dimitri rose and went to Rodrigue’s side, easily lifting him back to his feet and bracing him with one arm so that he didn’t sway or collapse again. 

“How did you spot it?” Dimitri growled, not looking at her so that for a moment she wasn’t certain that he’d even noticed her. Honestly, she had hoped he wouldn’t notice her. 

Maybe if she stood very, very still, everyone would stop noticing her at all. 

“I just waited,” Bernadetta said in her smallest voice. “And I watched him. And he slipped.” 

Before anyone could say anything more, they were interrupted by the arrival of a panting, exhausted Felix who had clearly just run at full tilt across the field. 

His face was spattered with blood and his lip was split and bruised from a blow. A few pieces of long hair had escaped its binding and fell over his face. As he staggered to a halt before his father, Rodrigue steadied himself on Dimitri’s arm and then took a step towards Felix. 

Felix dropped the sword in his hand and stepped forward.  Then he punched his father in the face with all of his might. 

Rodrigue dropped again like a heavy stone, a trickle of blood spraying from his mouth as the strike caught the side of his chin. 

“You idiotic old man, you weak foolish coward!” Felix howled, his anger making his fists shake at his sides. “What were you _thinking_? You broke with the plan, you nearly got yourself and your king killed, and now look at you! Useless, pathetic, you disgusting… you…” 

Dimitri immediately lunged forward, but Rodrigue grasped at his leg to stop him. Slowly, he let Dimitri pull him back to his feet. 

“I’m alright, son,” he said, his voice thick from the blow to the face. “I’m alive.” 

“I don’t care!” Felix shouted, his voice cracking with how loud he was yelling. “I don’t care if you live or die anymore, I can’t! If you don’t have the strength to keep living, at least get yourself slaughtered without harming anyone else, you _selfish_ , senile wretch.” 

“Felix,” Rodrigue repeated, grasping at Dimitri’s cloak as if he intended to restrain the king with his single remaining hand. “I’m fine. I will be okay.” 

“Bury yourselves, both of you,” Felix said, voice hoarse as he shook his head, starting to back up. “I don’t have the stomach to sit and watch it.” 

He pushed through the gathering crowd, stalking back through the assembling officers before breaking into a run once he was clear. 

“Well, well, well,” Hubert remarked dryly as the confrontation ended. “Seems we’ve had a number of spanners in our works today.” 

He caught Bernadetta with his eyes, that predatory smile of his turning to just a hint of pride as he looked at her. 

“Can someone explain any of this to me?” Claude called, still kneeling beside Solon’s body and poking it with the edge of a stick. “I pretty much just got here and nothing makes sense.” 

“An adequate assessment,” Hubert agreed. “Appearances can be deceiving. Heroes and heroines seldom get the chance to stick around and bask in their victory. Parades are not thrown in their honor. The chaos of war, as they say.” 

Bernadetta saw the window Hubert was giving her as he mused over the odd scene and gratefully took the opportunity to vanish into the crowd before anyone could try to congratulate her. 

When she got back to camp, she wanted nothing more than to crawl back into her own tent. Once they were back at the monastery, she might treat herself to a whole week in her room. 

But she had one last thing to do in the terrible outside world first. 

She went to Felix’s tent again. He was inside. She could hear him, breathing hard, perhaps from his run, or perhaps not. 

She sat on the outside of the tent. If there was one thing she knew, it was that having space for yourself was sacred. To be sheltered, even if only briefly, was a priceless gift, better than any of the ones she’d been able to find for him so far. 

“Felix,” she whispered. Inside of the tent, she heard his breathing catch a little, but he didn’t answer. “I know you probably want to be alone right now. I do too. Well, I almost always do. But I wanted to say that… um, oh no, I’m not good and saying things either…” 

He remained silent, not speaking, but not driving her off. 

“Father’s can be difficult,” she finally said. “When they believe they truly love you, but they also don’t.” 

She remembered the carriage again. The look on her father’s face when he’d said ‘you cannot hide away forever’ and then had the servants place the bag back over her head. The look on his face, years earlier, when he’d tied her to a chair and said ‘you cannot just go about cavorting with any peasant children you please.’ 

He was the one person she had never understood well enough not to provoke. She wondered which version of her father was real. She wondered if there was a real Count Varely. 

Perhaps they had all been imposters who called themselves fathers. 

“I want to be by myself,” Felix said, his voice low and muffled. Bernadetta nodded even though he couldn’t see her and began to stand up. “But… you can stay.” 

She couldn’t help but smile as she settled back down on the ground beside the tent. 

“Tell me what happens next,” Felix spoke again after a few moments. “After they find the locket and make her the heiress.” 

“Oh, well,” Bernadetta began, wrapping her arms around her knees and trying to recall her drafts. “Lord Dunvallo adopts her, at first. He really does miss his daughter, and she feels so guilty, because she’s lying to everyone and she knows the real heiress is probably dead. And he keeps catching her eating foods she never liked before and using the wrong hand when she writes…” 

“Why doesn’t he throw her out, then?” Felix asked. 

Because he wants to believe her, Bernadetta thought. Because he wants a miracle. 

“Well, actually, he turns out to be in league with the Shadow Reapers…” she said and Felix groaned and cursed their nefarious name and displayed surprising memory of the confrontation battle sequence in chapter thirteen. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Bernie really warm my heart and also her friendship with Sylvain is one of the best platonic supports. This chapter is brought to you by my deep confusion about why the Agarthans never try to put spies in your army in the second half of the game, despite clearly being able to make clones of people. 
> 
> Next time, Mercedes delivers harsh truths and extreme sass under the guise of gentle confusion. 
> 
> Commenters will be invited to choir practice where they will have a chance to display their own virtuosity.


	19. The Impregnable Fortress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercedes bakes cakes, chats with friends, drinks tea, and besieges a fortress.

The new baggage train brought flour and honey, so Mercedes baked cakes again. 

They were short on butter and eggs, so the consistency was somewhat hard and crumbly in the mouth, but they were sweet. She stood in the dining hall, shaping dough with her fingers and losing herself in memories as she worked. 

Memories of her mother, teaching her to bake family recipes that called for fine white sugar and orange preserves and so many other things they could not afford after fleeing House Bartels. 

And memories of her brother.

When the war began, Mercedes had returned to the church, hoping to do what she could while the Agarthans methodically wiped out every trace of the Goddess of Fódlan. It did not take long before they came to tear down the chapel and the priests chose to stay and burn before they surrendered the relics and the icons. 

Mercedes had done the same until she’d felt herself dragged from the smoke, hoisted onto the back of a horse, and when she awoke next, she was in Fhirdiad and the face looking down at her was soft, still childish even. 

He was, after all, just twenty three years old. 

While Emile claimed that the thirst of his blade was more than sated by the war, that he intended only to keep her safe, Mercedes understood that she was a prisoner again. She had spent her whole life passed from one guardian to another, from father to father to brother, and each time the shackles grew tighter. 

And so she smiled and asked him to buy her fine white sugar and orange preserves and then she baked for him their childhood favorites while her hands trembled and overmixed the dough. For five years she let her mind wander away, like she always did. Scatter-brained, dreamy, absent-minded, when absent was just where she wanted to be. 

The trouble was that she still loved Emile even as she ran from his own terrible, twisted version of loving her back. 

When she prayed, she still prayed for the Goddess to save him, to free him from the Death Knight, to help him forget the cruelty and violence of his lonely upbringing. The Church had taught her that no one was beyond salvation, that all sins could be forgiven, that there were no lost causes. 

To forget the past was spiritually necessary. 

As she pulled the cakes from the oven, filling the air with the smell of honey, she spotted Annette in the dining hall, loading two plates with food. 

“Here, Annie, take these while they’re still hot,” she offered, carefully removing squares of crumbly cake from the pan. Annette’s eyes widened with joy as she delicately tried to add them to the plates without burning her fingers. “Is Caspar finally eating again?” 

“Yep!” Annette said, beaming as she surveyed the food. “I’m still bringing it to his room, but he’s finally found his appetite.” 

“How wonderful,” Mercedes said earnestly, relief flooding through her. After losing Linhardt, Caspar had been wasting himself down to an invalid and she’d had to bring him to the infirmary a few times to make sure he wouldn’t sicken himself. But with time, pain and guilt were slowly and inevitably forgotten. “I’m glad he has you to keep some hope alive in his heart.”

“I’m trying my best,” Annette said. It was good to see her smile slowly returning as well. “Honestly, it helps that we are finally doing something right. Killing Solon might have been a stroke of luck, but everyone seems a little lighter because of it. Even… you know…” 

Mercedes knew. Yet another bloodsoaked man who she had to believe could get better. 

If she could just convince him to lay down his shaking bloodied sword and let the past be, then maybe he would find the boy she’d know again, smiling apologetically while he tried to thread a needle. But for Dimitri, even back then so numb and brutalized, there was no happy childhood recipe she could make to clear his head. 

“Have the lords decided yet where we go next?” Mercedes asked. “I’ve been so busy all morning I forgot to check.” 

“Edelgard wanted to press the advantage in the Empire and try to gain control of Fort Merceus, but even she knew that we aren’t ready to try for Enbarr yet. Claude suggested taking advantage of the chaos in Derdriu to regain his territories there. But…” Annette said with a shrug. “Seteth just had to go and mention what he’d been able to uncover about Cornelia during his years in Duscur. So we are going to Arianrhod or else Dimitri is going alone and getting himself killed.” 

“Goodness,” Mercedes remarked, although she was unsurprised. “And what do you think of it all, Annie?” 

“I want to save the Kingdom, of course,” Annette said. “And Arianrhod does cut off the Agarthans in Enbarr from Thales in Fhirdiad, which might be helpful. And also… well, Shamir said it was just a rumor, but apparently there is a former Knight of Seiros being held at Arianrhod and there’s a chance it could be him.” 

Mercedes nodded, placing a gentle hand over Annette’s. If Gilbert was alive, Annette would find him, no matter how ill he had treated her before. 

Let him go, she wished as Annette’s faltering smile returned, stop chasing after what is lost and move forward. _Goddess, haven’t you taken enough blood and tears from the girls who bear the weight of their sinful fathers and brothers?_

As the lunch hour ended, Mercedes removed her apron and finally took a plate for herself. Dedue came to take over the kitchen for the afternoon and prepare dinner. 

It was lovely to have him back. She had never been good at cooking savory meals, but Dedue could take even the meagerest ingredients and turn them into a succulent, wholesome dish that left you comforted down to your bones.

“Thank you Mercedes,” he said softly as she set aside the last few cakes for him in case he got hungry before his work was done. 

“Will you be cooking a dish from Duscur tonight?” she asked as she rinsed her hands and prepared to leave him to his work. He shook his head. 

“I think the troops would prefer something more familiar,” he said. 

“Oh, but those spices you add make everything so delicious,” Mercedes sighed with disappointment. “And besides, some of your men are from Duscur, right? Wouldn’t they like to eat something from home?” 

“To be honest, I have forgotten much about how to prepare the dishes they would know. I spent many years in the Kingdom and when I did return home, I found myself a stranger,” Dedue said. “Flayn told me this is common, to return and find yourself to be the foreigner now.” 

“I understand,” Mercedes said. “Perhaps you could create a new dish for us. With so many ingredients running low, you’ll almost certainly have to!” 

He smiled at that and she took her leave. She wanted a moment of quiet to finally rest her feet and eat and think. 

Unfortunately, there was one person still left in the dining hall and he was preparing a pot of tea from his precious store of leaves, carefully rationed and always kept at his side. Lorenz noted her as she walked resolutely towards a different table and then waved her over with one imperious hand. 

“Mercedes,” he said with his thin smile, “join me for tea?” 

His voice raised as though it was a question, but the easy confidence of his posture suggested a command rather than a request. 

“Oh hello, Lorenz,” she said, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I’m the most suitable company for such a lovely treat.” 

“Nonsense,” Lorenz said, briskly patting the table in front of him like he was calling a dog. “Sit and enjoy. The worth of the nobility has always been measured in generosity.” 

“I see, so commoners such as myself are merely tools for your improvement,” Mercedes said, sitting delicately across from him. “In that case, I am happy serving the growth of your compassion.” 

“Ah,” Lorenz said, getting that disconcerted look like he’d just cracked a tooth on what ought to be soft and yielding. “You misunderstand, I am afraid. I meant only that I recognize your exemplary labors around camp and I sought to provide recompense.” 

That was close to being a pleasant thing to say, Mercedes thought. 

Lorenz had been a bit of a project for her back at school. She had thought that five years at home in Gloucester might have ruined him, or made his ego thick enough that her gentle barbs could no longer piece through, but it was not the case. He had, after all, returned to help them at risk to himself and the position he could have earned cooperating with the Agarthans. 

There were no lost causes. 

“Thank you, Lorenz,” Mercedes said, putting all the warmth she could into the words. His face colored slightly pink and he ran a hand through his long hair while he regained composure. 

“Here, the southern fruit blend,” Lorenz said, quickly shifting back to where he felt on authoritative ground. “I believe you will enjoy it. A palette that favors sweets often does well with the brighter citrus and the lighter brew.” 

Mercedes allowed him to pour her a cup to have with her meal. It was his favored china, a beautifully painted set. The cup had a small chip in the rim now. 

“Delicious,” she said and Lorenz couldn’t resist a satisfied grin. He might be arrogant, but at least he had begun to turn his pride towards pleasing others rather than beating them. 

“So, Mercedes, I hear we ride next to the Silver Maiden at the request of your king,” Lorenz said. “It is certain to be a difficult battle. I advise that you remain by my side.” 

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself in a battle, Lorenz,” Mercedes said. 

“Yes… but,” he cleared his throat. “It is a noble’s duty to defend the common folk. To allow you to risk yourself would be an affront to my honor.” 

Mercedes felt the tea burn her lips as she sipped. 

He drew so close to saying that he liked her, that he wanted her safe because the thought of her hurt upset him, that he cared for her based on the feelings of his heart. But then whenever the moment came to speak it aloud, he drew back beneath the shell of feudal obligation. 

“In that case, my duty is to serve my king however he sees fit,” Mercedes replied gently, watching his hackles raise immediately at the bait. 

“Your king does not have my instinct for survival,” Lorenz said sharply. “I have managed to position myself advantageously throughout this entire war. He has managed to lose a throne, an eye, and his sense of decorum.”

“I admire your skills, Lorenz, but you have made it clear that duty comes before the feelings of your heart,” Mercedes said. “Why else might you be seen drinking tea with a common woman?

“Mercedes-” Lorenz said with obvious frustration, but then he cut himself off. 

Why could he not simply say it? What was the disease that forced men to crush the gentleness from their hearts?

“Yes, Lorenz?” she asked. 

“I am needed to devise tactics with Claude,” Lorenz said, standing, “when you have finished, kindly return your cup to my quarters.”

Mercedes finished her lunch in silence. She washed the cup and wrapped it in a clean handkerchief to return it so it wouldn’t be cracked or scraped. 

Delicate things required a delicate touch. 

Spirits were high during the march to Arianrhod. The Kingdom soldiers were pleased to be making a strike towards reclaiming their home. Garreg Mach was under Rodrigue’s command while he recovered and glumly relearnt the sword with his left hand. The army of three rulers marched together and morale rose as they did. 

Mercedes heard Annette humming to herself as they walked.  Felix was giving Sylvain what passed as a mild tongue lashing about not borrowing his things just because he couldn’t find his own possessions. Ingrid landed after flying a scouting circle, breathless and smiling as she gave her report to Claude. Dedue was listening to Flayn describing some truly bizarre legend about a woman who turned into a seal. 

Even Dimitri was walking with his head up, not quite as hunched and exhausted as he had been. Her people were safe, and as well as they could be, which made Mercedes happy. 

Arianrhod came into view at sunset. 

The Silver Maiden was built from pale grey granite, its walls high, but now shot through with towers of black metal, strange pillars of glowing green, and massive smoking engines that gave the city a haze of grey despite the orange glow of the sun. It was like a tall proud tree that upon examination was riddled with worms and rotten at the core. 

The plan was to attack within the city first and disable as much of the defense as they could to get their army through the gates to the city. The keep would not fall easily, but if they could barricade their enemies inside, there were magical means to enter and destabilize the leadership. 

Mercedes was assigned to provide support to the initial team breaching the walls with warp magic or flying creatures. They would need to move quickly through the city to destroy the power sources for the barriers and Viskam weapons or else the main army would never pass the gate. 

Annette had trained each soldier assigned to their group in how to destabilize and flood an Agarthan arcane reactor. 

When night fell and darkness gave them cover to approach the walls without fear of snipers, Mercedes joined Hubert with the rest of the foot soldiers. 

Edelgard’s right hand had managed to procure warp powder, allowing them to enter as a group while others rode with Ingrid, Claude, and a battalion of pegasus and wyvern riders. Claude would take command inside the city until the gates fell and Dimitri led the main force towards the keep. 

Mercedes gave Annette’s hand a final squeeze as they waited. 

“I’m sure we’ll find him,” Mercedes whispered. “Your father must be inside.” 

Then the world flashed away in a burning burst of violet and Mercedes found herself standing in an enormous city. 

Agarthan buildings had cannibalized most of the old stone foundations, rising impossibly high around her. As soon as they entered, blue-green light began to glow from the streets and towers and a low buzz seemed to be alerting guards to their presence.

Claude was in command of their party and he called out orders from above, craning his neck to survey the streets through the looming buildings. 

“They have plenty of titanus,” he yelled grimly. “It looks like there are guards gathered at the gates of the keep. We’ll leave those for Dimitri, I think. Spread out and find the reactors.” 

Mercedes was assigned to enter and search the northwest district and, as the group split up, she heard the distinctive sound of hooves behind her. So Lorenz had managed to get himself made her guardian. Overhead, Seteth was watching for any sign of guarded defenses and the battalions moved out into the dark city. 

After a few minutes of making their way through the dark streets, Seteth’s battalion met with a rain of arrows from soldiers stationed on the rooftops. 

Mercedes let the light of the goddess well up within her and from afar she felt the power close their wounds and stop the trickle of blood from above. Lorenz and his mages sent fire raining into the archers’ position, forcing them out into the open where Seteth and his cavalry could easily pick them off. 

Shortly after, Mercedes saw Seteth hold up a signal and then the mechanical clicking of an Agarthan construct filled the night. 

“I’ll lure it to the side street,” Seteth called down to them, “it seems to be guarding a building. Take your battalions and finish with the reactor first.” 

“Got it,” Mercedes affirmed as Seteth and his riders swooped away. A flicker like silent lightning shot through the air as the titanus summoned a crackling spear of arcane energy. Mercedes and Lorenz ducked through its path as Seteth drew its attention.

Up ahead, Mercedes saw a squat, windowless building with walls of smooth black. At the end of the street there was a glowing arcane weapon, the Viskam, barriers of energy flashing around it every few seconds. 

“I’ll turn off the generator,” Mercedes said firmly. “You take my battalion and get to the switch once the shields are down and turn that thing off.” 

“Very well,” Lorenz said, clearly unsatisfied to be splitting up, but accepting the job that at least kept her out of open and vulnerable ground. 

Mercedes burst through the locks of the building with a searing blast of divine light. Inside, there were four Agarthan mages ready for her, their masked faces and pale hands telling her that they were not recent recruits. 

T he wellspring of white magic within her kept the dark magic from doing much harm. Her arms glowed bright in the darkness, rings of pale golden runes circling her body as the black tendrils of their magic attempted to grasp at her. She pulled her bow from across her back instead, shooting the masked mages down one at a time. 

The control panel was a meaningless stream of lights at first, but Annette had explained what to do. She pressed her hands to the glowing panels, dragging the arcane sigils around as though her fingers were simply pushing them. 

If she shut the machine down, it would automatically reboot in the event of an attack, so instead she input the memorized symbols and patterns Annette had taught her to cause the arcane energy to tear itself apart, opposing charges and schools of magic breaking apart the crystals used to store its power. 

Outside she heard a crash and the sound of grinding metal. Another titanus must have found them. She had to hurry. Lorenz and his soldiers would not last long alone. 

Symbols began to glow red and flash on the glass display. Mercedes watched the lights flicker and a few sealed doors slid open automatically. 

Behind one of them, Mercedes saw a corpse, hooked up to a bed of wires and sensors. And behind another... 

“Captain Jeralt?” she said, hardly able to believe it. 

The former captain of the Knights of Seiros was struggling to his feet, limbs stiff and weak as he tried to stand. His beard and hair had grown even longer in captivity and he wore only rags. 

Mercedes saw angry red punctures up and down his arms. They must have been using his blood, taking it slowly to keep him alive. 

“You should run,” he said in a weak wheezing voice as he leaned against the wall. “Get out of the city.” 

“Let me help,” Mercedes said, running to steady him and giving him all the energy she could with the light left inside of her. The needle marks healed to dull raised scars and he seemed strengthened enough to at least walk. “Here, come with me. The Kingdom army is about to take the fortress.” 

“No, no,” Jeralt coughed, his voice still weak despite the urgency in his face. “Get out. If the defenses fail, Fhirdiad will know. They won’t lose another base.” 

“What are you saying?” Mercedes asked, helping him as he limped towards the door. “Thales and his army could never reach us in time before the keep falls.” 

“I’m saying Thales doesn’t care for failure among his own,” Jeralt said, grabbing her by the arm so hard it hurt. “He’ll sacrifice the fortress to keep you from it. Tell your men to run, now!” 

They burst out of the door. Fire and blue-green magic lit the city around them in a prismatic whirl. 

At the end of the street, the Agarthan weapon was sputtering and fizzling while Lorenz and his knights circled an enormous titanus. 

“Come with me, kid!” Jeralt said, one hand still holding Mercedes’ wrist. She pulled back with all her strength, her hand sliding out of his grip. 

“We have to help each other,” Mercedes said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t just abandon the plan and leave everyone to die.” 

Jeralt looked up at the sky. Then he shook his head and ran off into the night.

Behind her, Mercedes heard an explosion and she turned to see Lorenz being thrown back off of his horse as the titanus called down a rain of molten rock. 

His knights were fleeing or burning around him, but from the ground she watched him raise his hand, a few runes still spinning up his arm. 

A blast of lightning shot from his fingers and the massive metal creature shook and then collapsed into a pile of smoking metal.

She ran to his side as soon as the remains had stopped sparking and sputtering dangerously. 

He was conscious, which was good, but his horse had fallen on top of one of his legs. There was a bad burn up his left side, but he was already shifting to pour out a concoction to heal the worst of the damage there. 

“Mercedes,” he said with a grunt of pain as he saw her. But there was relief in his smile. “I am alright, of course, I merely need a moment to-” 

His words were cut off by a low humming sound, so loud that all of the glass on the streets shattered. 

Distantly, Mercedes heard screams breaking out across the city. The old bell at the fort began to ring. 

Mercedes looked up. Shooting stars were filling the sky. 

The heavens glowed with pinpricks of light, some of them growing and growing as the ground shook. The low hum grew louder and Mercedes felt blood begin to spill down from her nose. 

“They wouldn’t… they…” Lorenz said, and she read his lips more than she heard his voice over the terrible sound. His face was pale and frightened, all of the bravado gone as he stared up at the sky. “The keep isn’t even _breached_ , their own people are still inside, Cornelia is still…” 

“The horse, Lorenz!” Mercedes screamed over the roar of the javelins as they plummeted towards the earth. “Push!”

She leaned her full weight against the dead animal as Lorenz’s agonized scream was drowned out by the deafening hum. He pulled back with trembling muscles as the carcass slid away from his leg with unbearable slowness.

“Please, Lorenz, you have to pull harder,” she cried, watching his chest heave as he jostled what was probably a broken femur. “The pain will stop in a moment, I swear, but we need to go!” 

Lorenz whimpered and pulled the rest of his foot out from beneath the horse, then collapsed onto his side and was sick onto the charred stones.

“Mercedes!” Seteth’s voice was calling out from above. A demonic flying beast was pursuing him and he wove deftly away from its claws in the air. It’s face was a metal mask and it seemed undeterred by the bright death speeding down towards them. “The west gate is open! Run now!”

Mercedes pressed her hands to Lorenz’s leg, but she’d used up so much already restoring Jeralt to his feet and the light inside of her was dimming and weakening. She felt the bone trying to fuse back together, but the angle was wrong and the connection was fragile. 

“Lorenz, you must try to run!” she commanded him as he lay gasping on the ground. There was vomit in his hair and his eyes were wide and glazed with fear. “Take my arm!” 

With all of her strength, she heaved him up and began to drag him forward. He pushed himself a few steps with one foot, holding his injured leg up at an odd angle where the bone was no longer straight. She heard him drop his spear with a clatter as he tried to lessen the weight, tried to run.

She pulled him towards a flight of stairs, aiming for the wall, but as he tried to climb she heard a sickening pop from his leg and he sagged to the ground. 

The buildings around them were shaking, some of them collapsing in on themselves. Her teeth felt like they were vibrating in her skull. Lorenz lay on the steps and tried to crawl as she tugged on his hand. 

She might make it out of the city if she ran. 

If she went now, she could see where the gate was, make it out into the open plain, throw herself to the ground and take cover and she might survive. At least that way there was a chance she might possibly survive. She couldn’t be certain, but she had to have hope.

But she would have to leave Lorenz. 

And he would die alone and in pain and terrified without her. And there was no one else to save him. 

Goddess, she prayed, feeling her heart breaking at the choice, why must this be my fate? 

She did not want to die, especially not to die for the sake of comforting some dreadful, often monstrous young nobleman who could not bear to allow himself to love her. She did not want to die for no reason, to save no one. 

But at the thought of leaving him now, the part of her she called her faith, the voice of Sothis, her immortal soul, drew back in horror. There were no lost causes after all. 

Faith meant to try even when the odds were impossible. Faith meant to love even when the love was terrible. Faith meant to forget the past, to wash away the old, to believe in a future even when that future was just a few more steps across the streets of Arianrhod and then burning. 

“Mercedes,” he said, grasping desperately at her ankle where he lay. “Mercedes, you should… you should go…” 

There were tear tracks running down the blood and sick smeared across his face. He was shaking and crying with fear, but he was still telling her to leave him to die. 

“Lorenz,” she said, falling to her knees and pressing his head to her chest. He shuddered with pain as she did. “I’m here, I will get you to safety.” 

“I don’t want to die,” he said, sobs finally coming as she held him to her. “I don’t want to die here, I don’t want _you_ to die here.”

“Then pray with me,” she said, her own voice thick and trembling. 

It was so loud. The dark streets were blazing now with light. Her eyes were dazed and colors flashed in front of her. 

“Pray for a miracle.” 

His fists clutched at her skirts as she began to mutter a prayer. Her thoughts were growing strange. She could hear nothing but ringing in her ears and she suspected she might have gone deaf. 

Her mind felt like it was fracturing into pieces, shaking apart like the stones of the buildings around her. 

Sugar and oranges. Butter the pans first. Stew the peels in sugar and cinnamon and clove. Sift the flour for lumps. 

Emile with sweet cream covering his hands, washing his hands, helping him wash the blood from his hands every night. Tucking him into bed and kissing his cheek. 

He was dragging her out of the fire, right? Or was that Lorenz grasping blindly and desperately for her hand?

A ghost story she’d told him as a child. A knight searching the churchyard for his own body. Would he ever find himself among the dead? What was the purpose of such a ghost? 

What did he intend to do if he ever did find himself? 

A bright light. The Goddess, come down from the heavens at last. 

She reached up towards her and the Goddess bared long white fangs. The Fell Star. A light falling to earth. A man’s face with that star burning in his chest. 

She had forgotten so much. 

Oranges and sugar. Stirring batter with an old friend, a girl with blonde hair and a bright laugh. Rolling the pastry in layers. 

What came next? Heat. Unbearable heat. Heat all around her. A hand was clawing at her own. She took a deep breath and felt fire in her lungs. 

There was something she had forgotten to say. 

Something like ‘I love you’ or ‘I hate you’ or ‘you have consumed me’ or ‘add the milk slowly while stirring.’ 

She still had something she wanted to say, something she- 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this might be the chapter I am proudest of just as a piece of writing. I love Mercedes so much. May her spirit live on to kindly slam-dunk toxic masculinity into the dirt. 
> 
> Next time, a brief respite from the suffering as we turn to Catherine on the eve of battle and check in on some romances. 
> 
> Thank you for the comments! Comment again and I will deliver your admiring love letters to servants, knights, and even the archbishop.


	20. Our Chosen Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine wanders the monastery by night. It would be great if everyone could just stop falling in love all around her so she could be drunk in peace?

Sunset. Garreg Mach Monastery. Verdant Rain Moon and the weather was hot even at night. 

Sweat ran down her back and made strands of hair stick to her face. She sat on the steps, looking out at the ruined town, the charred forest, the valleys now shaded with impenetrable darkness. And she took a long drink from the flask. 

There was a crack in the step beside her. It could have happened at any point during the battles fought there over the past five years or perhaps just from the normal wear of stone out in the elements. 

Catherine ran her finger along the crack. She could not seem to shake the image that when Lady Rhea’s body had fallen from the monastery walls onto these steps, the stone had split and the very foundations of the monastery had begun to crumble. 

The alcohol burned in her throat as she drank and she felt her hands growing thick and clumsy as she fumbled to replace the flask in her pocket. The front steps of the monastery were nearly silent. The wind rustled dead branches and occasionally she heard the shifting of some small animal in dry grass. 

At least the ringing in her ear had stopped for a moment. For so many days, it had been loud within Garreg Mach’s walls. 

Once the army had returned from the disaster in the Kingdom, there had been so many wounded that all of the buildings and beds they had were converted into a sprawling infirmary. Men and women screamed and moaned as raw, weeping burns were tended and bandaged. Bits of metal and stone had to be removed from wounds with delicate instruments. Several soldiers had been blinded or deafened in the explosion and many had wept as the blood ran down their faces and necks. 

For Catherine, it had just been her left ear. She spent a few days off-balance, everything muffled, and with a persistent whining in her head. At Arianrhod, she’d been riding with the pegasus cavalry, who had fared much better than those who had warped through the walls and then had to try to run for the gates. 

But, even once her wounds had healed, she was still plagued by the high tinny whining in her ear. It came and went, sometimes making words into muffled confusion, other times keeping her awake till the early hours of morning. Without warning, it would mount to an unbearable volume, setting her teeth to grind in her jaw. 

For now, though, the quiet had finally returned and Catherine sat and tried to enjoy the silence. Tonight she wanted to be drunk and sad, but paradoxically she also didn’t want to be alone. 

That was the trouble with her. She needed her own bad mood to infect other people. 

“Hey partner.” 

Shamir spoke disconcertingly close behind her. She’d always had a talent for sneaking up on people. Catherine turned and watched as the other woman moved softly down the stairs until she was standing beside her. 

“What do you want?” Catherine asked, trying to keep her voice from slurring. She didn’t want Shamir to see she was a wreck because Shamir was never a wreck.

“Meeting is finally over,” Shamir said, brief and business-like. “You didn’t show.” 

“Didn’t have much to contribute,” Catherine said. “I heard there was a fight. I’d have made that worse.” 

“There was a fight, but not from whom you’d expect,” Shamir said, folding her arms and keeping her eyes focused on the vista in front of them. “Claude actually started it.” 

“Fancy that,” Catherine said dully. She was having trouble caring about strategy and tactics. It didn’t seem to matter too much in the long run. Wherever they went, they found the same enemy and the same terrible odds. 

“Well, Hubert told them what we’d managed to recover from Arianrhod about the location of the Agarthan capital, Shambhala,” Shamir continued, as though Catherine had asked to be filled in. “We’d expected Edelgard to propose attacking there next and Claude to side with her.” 

“But that didn’t happen, I guess?” Catherine asked. 

“Dimitri wanted Fhirdiad and Thales. Not even sure how many layers of revenge he’s pursuing now. Claude argued we didn’t have the numbers for a confrontation like that and Shambhala would give us better intelligence about Agarthan tech,” Shamir said. Then she glanced down at Catherine and finally caught her eye. “Edelgard sided with Dimitri.” 

Catherine burst out laughing. She hiccuped a few times as she tried to get herself under control and she heard Shamir’s disgusted exhalation. 

“Drunk again?” Shamir asked when she’d finished laughing. “Haven’t we passed the point for wallowing?” 

“Oh, come on,  _ partner _ ,” Catherine said with mocking familiarity. “Have a bit of pity.” 

“I might have pitied you five years ago,” Shamir said, gritting her teeth. “I’ve lost people too. But this is pathetic. Find something new to fight for. Pick a new future you want and move on with it.”

“Wonderful speech,” Catherine said. She took another sip from the flask just to spite Shamir. “But there isn’t a future for me. We have three leaders and none of them gives a damn about the Church of Seiros despite what they might claim. Even Seteth won’t consider leading the faith. And yes, I _asked_.” 

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Shamir sighed. “This was a waste of time. Come find me when you’re done feeling sorry for yourself. Other people are still fighting for a cause here.” 

She left and Catherine was alone on the steps again. Too damn quiet, she thought. 

Creakily, she stood up and stretched her legs. It was getting dark, but too early to pass out. She wanted to walk, but knew that might just be her drunken brain trying to carry her back to a place she definitely did not want to go. 

Weaving slightly, Catherine made her way up the stairs and back through the gates. She saluted the guard at the gate with a wild gesture and ended up smacking herself in the face. 

“Nothing to report,” she said and then wheezed with laughter at his expression. 

As she walked shakily around to the pond, she spotted a pair of people sitting at the edge of the dock, their feet dangling in the murky water. 

Claude and Ingrid, both occasionally tossing small rocks through the cloud of algae and muck on the pond’s surface. Catherine walked towards the stairs, catching a bit of their conversation as she went. 

“Once we can, I’ll send the rest of his things back to his father in Gloucester territory. I have no idea why he brought so much china here in the middle of a war,” Claude said with a melancholy laugh. “Trust him to inconvenience me from beyond the grave, huh?” 

“I still have makeup Mercedes gave me,” Ingrid replied, throwing a rock hard into the pond. “It seemed so silly in the middle of a war, I don’t think I ever wore it in front of her. Now, I don’t know who to give it to.” 

Claude rested a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder and she leaned in, resting her head against his. 

“I hope it’s okay that I’m really, _really_ mad at your king right now,” Claude said after a short pause. 

“I am… also really mad at my king right now,” Ingrid said, keeping their bodies close. “Mercedes would want us to win the war, not die getting revenge.” 

“Lorenz probably wouldn’t mind if I died avenging him,” Claude said with a slightly choked laugh. “So I guess I have to live and spite the bastard.” 

As Catherine watched them from the stairs, Ingrid leaned in and pressed a kiss to Claude’s mouth. 

“Very inappropriate time, my lady,” Claude said sternly, wagging a mocking finger at Ingrid. “Most dishonorable.”

“Don’t even start that,” Ingrid replied, punching his shoulder. 

Catherine climbed the steps and left them behind. It was sickening. Idiotic kids just tempting the world to break them. Ingrid deserved… well, Ingrid deserved whatever she wanted after putting up with Catherine for five years. 

She stumbled across the courtyard and through the dining hall towards the gardens. There was company to be had still if she wanted to stay and eat with the soldiers, but the idea of collapsing under a tree seemed preferable. 

The gardens were overgrown and most of the plants no longer bloomed after the ashfall. Brown vines and barren bushes provided some cover and Catherine slumped down beneath an old hedge. She spotted through the thin branches the solitary figure of Sylvain sitting beside the ruined gazebo. 

“Care for a picnic?” 

Catherine twitched slightly as she heard Dorothea’s nearby voice. 

“Ah, thank you my flower,” Sylvain replied, “but don’t you think you’re being a bit forward with your seductions?” 

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit backward with yours?” Dorothea replied without missing a beat. 

“You have a handprint on your leg, my sweet,” Sylvain said. “I hope he was gentle.” 

“I have a handprint on my leg because many of the soldiers we lost at Arianrhod had brought their families here,” Dorothea retorted sharply. “And now I have more children to take care of than I know what to do with.”

“Oh, right,” Sylvain sounded somewhat embarrassed. Dorothea set a basket down beside him on the gazebo steps and crossed her arms. 

“Darling, I find your jealousy a little exciting, even if it is misdirected towards orphaned children,” Dorothea said, her voice sweet again, “but you need to give me a bit more credit.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sylvain asked with a huff of uncomfortable laughter. 

“You asked me once if I would still like you without your Crest, your title, and your... what was it? Your ‘devastating beauty’?” Dorothea said brightly. “Clearly, I’ve demonstrated so, but as I haven’t had the opportunity yet to lose my pretty face, how can a girl tell if you reciprocate the sentiment?” 

“Hey, seriously, it’s okay,” Sylvain said, “you don’t have to flatter me.” 

“It seems like I do,” Dorothea said. “Have some food. You’re the type who needs some substantial wining and dining.” 

“Please, Dorothea.” Sylvain’s voice had lost his usual ease. “Don’t tease me about this.” 

“I’m not teasing,” Dorothea said gravely. Then she sighed and reverted to her playful tone. “How about this? After the war, I’ll stick around until my face has gone wrinkly and my figure is saggy. Then you can decide if I’m worth it.” 

“This is unbearable,” Catherine said loudly from beneath the hedge. She rolled unsteadily to her feet. “Isn’t there anywhere in this monastery to feel drunk and sad in peace without someone… falling in love all around you?” 

Both Sylvain and Dorothea were staring at her, looking slightly mortified. Catherine gave a sweeping bow and then left them to it. 

She walked towards the old dorms, now reorganized and converted into an overflow infirmary. Most of the doors were shut for the night. It smelled of astringent, like the ointment used for burns and cleaning wounds. 

At one end of the dorms, Catherine could hear someone crying. A girl, her sobs loud and shameless. 

One of the doors was ajar and Catherine spotted the small frame of Caspar leaning against the wall outside. 

“Please, Annette, you need to rest, please,” Flayn’s voice echoed from inside of the room. “This is only going to help you sleep, I promise.” 

The crying grew louder from within the room. 

“I know, I know,” Flayn tried again. “She would not wish to see you harm yourself, please. Just drink a little of it for me.” 

Catherine reeled past Caspar where he stood posted outside. His face was firm and determined, like he was on guard duty. 

“Enjoying the ambiance?” she asked, her tongue fumbling over the words. 

Caspar shook his head. 

“I’m itching for a fight if you’d rather be somewhere else,” Catherine said, shaking out her hands. 

“I’m going to wait for her,” Caspar said firmly. “ However long it takes. She did the same for me.” 

“Don’t know what I did to deserve being this drunk and lonely at the same time,” Catherine said, knowing she was saying things she would not normally want to say to a nice kid like Caspar. “But everyone tonight seems on a mission to remind me.” 

She walked to the end of the dorms and saw there was a glow of firelight flickering inside of the old sauna. Catherine’s heart began to pound, like someone was chasing her and she was blocked in with no escape. 

Hilda’s voice echoed down from the second level. 

“Oh, Ferdinand, you really didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me,” she said. “You must have spent hours hauling all this water and wood up here!” 

“I have a debt to pay, Hilda,” Ferdinand said seriously. “The debt of my very life. I only hope my very minor accomplishments can somehow repay the magnanimity of your own.” 

“Ha, well I might have a few more favors to ask you eventually,” Hilda laughed. 

Nope, Catherine thought, immediately turning around. 

Whatever was about to happen in that sauna, she wanted no part of it. She’d heard that the fear of imminent death had a tendency to lower inhibitions. She would not be sticking around to overhear how low those inhibitions were about to get. 

She had barely escaped to the former Officers Academy green before she almost ran into Ignatz and Petra strolling hand in hand. 

“I wish I could be showing you Brigid some day,” Petra sighed. “If there is ever an ending to the fighting here or some escaping by sea, I am wishing for you to see my home.” 

“If there is an end…” Ignatz mused. “Why wait for that? Describe Brigid to me and I’ll see it in my mind’s eye tonight.” 

“Your mind is… also having an eye?” Petra asked. “Are you having three eyes?”

Catherine managed to get out of earshot then by jogging unsteadily into the reception hall. It was filled with soldiers, sleeping on the cracked tile floor. She wove through the blankets and tried not to step on anyone. 

Bracing herself against the wall, she stopped to take another drink. The bridge and the cathedral were ahead of her. 

If she followed where her feet would inevitably lead, she knew where she would end up. In her current state, Catherine wasn’t sure she could handle spending another night curled up outside of Lady Rhea’s empty bedchamber. 

Had she not been trustworthy and true? If Lady Rhea had seen fit to save her life, why hide so much for her? Why hide her history, her plans, even what she was? Catherine would not have minded. She would have remained loyal. 

Maybe Lady Rhea had known her better than she thought. After all, look at her. A drunken mess, a failed knight, a holy warrior without a church to serve. 

If Lady Rhea had foreseen the disappointment Catherine would become, perhaps she had been wise to keep her secrets. 

As Catherine prepared for her unsteady walk across the bridge, she saw a pair of dark shapes walking in the other direction, their steps quick and agitated. Night had fallen and a half-full moon provided only a weak glow. Catherine drew back behind the wall and waited to see who it was before she risked staggering past them in her state. 

“Lady Edelgard, please listen to me,” Hubert was whispering urgently. “I will not openly contradict your orders, but privately I must offer my grave objections to this plan. Hanneman died getting us the location of Shambhala. If we do not use this window-” 

“I do not need reminders of sacrifices and losses,” Edelgard replied sharply. “I assure you I am capable of keeping track.” 

Catherine drew in a breath. The shadow emperor and her pet weasel in open conversation at last. 

This was actually interesting to overhear. She waited and listened as they walked closer. 

“Thales will send an army from Fhirdiad to meet us at the Tailtean plains before we even get a chance to claim his life,” Hubert insisted. “He will never risk himself on the field. It is pointless. And if he does summon Byleth to his aid, we will lose all we have worked for. If this is some attempt to curry favor with Dimitri-”

“For one so loyal, you really think very little of me, Hubert,” Edelgard said harshly. “I have thought this through. If Thales was willing to destroy Arianrhod to keep us from having it, he will surely do the same to Shambhala. I know that duplicity is second-nature to you, but you have forgotten again the game we are playing. They cannot be tricked. They cannot be subverted. They must be overpowered completely, or we will lose. These are men who have killed _gods_ before.”

“My lady,” Hubert said, sounding suddenly stricken. 

“Leave me,” Edelgard commanded. “There are still plans to be made and Lysithea has called for me again.”

“My lady, what have you done?” Hubert asked. 

Catherine had never heard him sound like that before. Normally he was all dark insinuation and smoothness, but he sounded frightened suddenly. 

“I have ordered you to leave my side,” Edelgard said again. “Am I still your emperor, or not?” 

Seconds later, Edelgard brushed past where Catherine stood concealed. Somewhere nearby, Hubert cursed faintly under his breath and she heard his boots clicking down the hallway in the opposite direction. 

Well, that was something different. She hoped she’d remember it the next day. Right then, she was still too soggy to make much sense of their conversation. 

All she could focus on was the news about Hanneman. The poor old fool hadn’t fled the war after all. She hoped someone had thought to light a candle in his honor. 

To the cathedral, she thought. To keep herself from climbing the stairs after Edelgard and up to the third floor. She would ask for forgiveness in the ruins of the chapel. Maybe the Goddess would sober her up. 

Inside of the church, it was dark and only a few salvaged candles offered any light. The broken glass had been swept away and the windows covered with oilcloth to try to keep the rain out. Loyalty and faith. Protecting the bones of the church when its beating heart was already still. 

Catherine stepped through the front door she herself had torn from its hinges a few months prior. Dust and ash blew through the entrance and scattered across the marble tile. 

In the dim and flickering light of the candles, the cathedral appeared full of shifting shadows and it took her a moment to realize she was, indeed, not alone. 

An enormous black shape stood before the pile of rubble that remained at the northern wall. A beam of moonlight shone through the collapsed wall and glinted faintly off of armor and flaxen hair. Dimitri stood in front of the altar, his head tipped back so that he stared up at the stars. 

Before Catherine could say anything or retreat, he spoke, and his low voice echoed in the high vaulted ceiling. 

“Have you come to give thanks?” he asked without turning his head, voice listless. “The Goddess has seen fit to spare us once again.” 

Catherine paused, uncertain what to say, but when another voice answered, she realized he had been speaking to someone else. 

“I came to ask for forgiveness,” Marianne’s quiet voice rang out from the front of the church. She was standing only a few feet behind Dimitri, her body half-obscured by a pillar. “Misfortune follows me and so many have perished.” 

“And does the Goddess answer?” Dimitri asked. Marianne paused and so he continued, his voice taught and brittle. “Does she tell you why you are left alive, again and again and _again_? Does she justify what gives you the right to live on when all you seem to do is accrue more sin and more failure? Does she offer signs of how to persist when fate denies you even the satisfaction of revenge?” 

“She offers no answers,” Marianne replied. “But I do not ask for them. Life is… difficult. I pray only for the strength to atone.” 

“Pointless,” Dimitri said with a hollow laugh. “Atonement does nothing to bring justice to the dead. If this world was just, better men than I would be the ones standing here alive.” 

“Then the world is not just,” Marianne agreed. Her voice faded to a near-whisper. “And the world is not good. And faith is senseless and the Goddess is deaf. But… please don’t die. Don’t leave me behind.” 

Dimitri was silent for a long moment, then Catherine saw him place a hand to the side of his head, his fingers running through his overlong hair. 

“It’s so loud,” he said, words coming out jerky and erratic, “it’s so loud I can’t sleep, I can’t hear anything over the screaming. If I could have killed her myself, maybe they would find some peace, but-”

As he said it, Catherine felt the whining return to her left ear. The high-pitched tone swelled and faded, washing over her in waves of painful volume. She flinched and closed her eyes as her ear throbbed. She had to leave. 

Stumbling back outside into the warm summer air, she felt her way along the railing in the darkness. Only a faint humid breeze stirred around the walls of the church. She was probably going to vomit, she realized. 

Hoping to at least get out of sight, she made for the Goddess Tower. If she was going to commit sacrilege, she might as well use the holiest of places to empty her guts into the chasms below. 

Blearily, she pushed through the open doors. She could hang her head from the balcony and maybe sleep on the floor a while if the ringing in her ear would stop. 

But as she opened the door, she realized that yet again she had stumbled across someone else. 

Young lovers, inevitably. They always did love the Goddess Tower.

“Catherine?” 

Leonie was sitting at the edge of the balcony, one of her feet through the railing and dangling over the edge. 

“Sorry,” Catherine slurred. “I’ll find somewhere else, you kids just-” 

But Leonie was by herself. She sat at the edge of the tower looking out over the valley below. There was a mostly empty bottle beside her. 

Leonie had always been an odd student, Catherine recalled. She’d spent her academy days so focused on Captain Jeralt, she’d never really seemed to make many friends. 

Devotion made for a lonely life when your cause withered and died like an untended field. 

Hesitantly, Leonie raised the bottle in Catherine’s direction before taking a drink. 

“To drinking alone,” Leonie toasted. “Greatest show of loyalty there is.” 

Catherine leaned against the wall and slid down to sit beside her. She uncapped her flask and shook it over her mouth, only a few drops left to wet her tongue. 

“To Captain Jeralt,” Catherine said. “And Lady Rhea. And the mess they left behind.” 

“A truly splendid legacy,” Leonie agreed. “You dry?” 

She offered the bottle. Catherine looked hard at it for a moment.    


“I think I’m about to throw up,” she said, “but maybe after that.” 

There was, Catherine thought, no truer partnership than someone holding your hair back after your life’s work was over and your heroes were dead. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, no one died, that's nice. Next up, it is finally... Dimitri time... I'm sure it will be fine... 
> 
> Thank you for your comments! Comment again and I will deliver valuable trade secrets to you so that you might increase your profits in the cut-throat world of Fodlan's merchants.


	21. Field of Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri and Edelgard stand together at the Tailtean plains. The storm rages and the Ashen Demon shows his face.

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, last surviving heir of House Blaiddyd, Savior King of Faerghus, madman, hunter, bloodthirsty monster, oracle of the unquiet dead, defender of the weak, failure, punished sinner, and wild boar stood looking down over the Tailtean Plains by night. 

The air was hot and close, moisture gathering on every surface. Distantly, lightning flickered on the horizon, but the thunder was silent. The sky overhead was full black, covered in clouds heavy with unspilled rain. 

Just let it storm, he thought. Let the clouds finally, finally burst. Let the Goddess drown the world if she wanted to. 

Anything to stop the pressure, the heat, the darkness all around them. 

He had waited for so long, nine years of crushing, ever mounting weight on his shoulders, for a revenge that had been stolen away from him. All those years he had trained for the moment when he could look into the eyes of the person who’d caused the Tragedy and see that same fear and desperation he’d heard in the screams of his family and friends, that he still heard, endlessly…

But she was nothing but scattered dust now. Vaporized by someone else and any answer she could have given him gone. 

So let it storm. Let the world rip itself apart. 

Behind him, the remaining soldiers of the three united countries of Fódlan made a pathetic encampment in the hills before Tailtean. He was surprised any of them had agreed to come at all. When he’d demanded Fhirdiad and Thales’ head with it, he’d expected Claude and Edelgard to oppose him and Rodrigue to gently insinuate that they must recover their numbers first. But of all people, it had been her. 

His step-sister. The traitor. Edelgard. 

“Any sign of the enemy yet?” 

Dimitri did not need to turn to know she was behind him. She stepped forward and through the peripheral view of his remaining eye he saw her profile. 

She wore a dark red dress, oddly delicate looking on her small frame. Her white hair was wrapped firmly around a carved and horned crown, giving her an appropriately demonic appearance from the side. 

Dimitri did not respond. It was unusual for her to approach him, especially without her lurking shadow retainer waiting in the background in case he made any move in her direction. 

“They’ll come from the woods, I assume,” Edelgard continued unperturbed. “Thales will give command to some minor Agarthan general and try to break us with numbers alone. Once we’ve weakened, he’ll have another general waiting to ride in with reinforcements.” 

“What do you want, Edelgard?” Dimitri asked. 

It felt like swallowing acid whenever they spoke. Everything was a game to her. She teased him with scraps of plans, wanting him to grovel and beg for answers. If she’d been cold enough to ally with her mother’s killers, then he ought not to be surprised. 

“I want to win,” she replied, turning her head slightly to look at him. “So we ought to be prepared for an ambush. I intend to keep back from the frontline, near the woods, in case trouble arrives. Perhaps you’d like to join me.” 

“Why ask me” he said, a dark smile twisting at the corner of his mouth, “when you’d know I’d just as soon have you burn with the rest of them if I had the opportunity?” 

“I know you hate me for what I’ve done,” Edelgard said, facing him and trying to catch his eye even as he tilted his face away. Her voice grew sharper as she stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at her. 

“I do not regret the choices I made. I wanted a better future for Fódlan and I was willing to ignore my own feelings, my own desires, even my own hatred to get it. But do not misunderstand me. I  _ hate _ Thales. I hate the years I was forced to call him my uncle and forced to look away from his depravity to preserve myself. I hate what he did to me and my family. I dream every night of my brothers and sisters begging for help.” 

Dimitri felt his chest grow tight at that. For a moment, she sounded like El. 

He recalled her strict voice, lecturing him on his dance steps. She had a trick for seeming to loom over him when he had always been taller than her. Yet there was softness there as well. A slight ache in her words. Her eyes might not shine and her mouth might not tremble, but he remembered how she had missed her siblings in the Empire during that year in the Kingdom. 

His lip curled in disgust with himself. 

“You expect my sympathy?” he asked savagely. “You expect me to believe you cared for your family and aided Thales only to survive? No, Edelgard. You wanted power. And even if you claim that you would have eventually used that power to purge your unsavory allies, it does not matter. In the end, you still would have sacrificed thousands of innocent souls to war. You would have torn apart countless families whose only crime was belief in the Church and you would have called it necessary. You would have let the Kingdom and the Alliance die to save the Empire.” 

Distantly, thunder rumbled over the plains. Edelgard was briefly illuminated in a flash of lightning, her white hair glowing around her like a halo. 

In that split second, her face was broken and sad, but the expression vanished so quickly he could not tell if it had simply been a play of light and shadow.

“Then there will be no accord between us,” she said, stepping back and turning to walk back to the camp. “So be it. Our beliefs lead us down different paths, but for the sake of… of something long past, I wanted to say farewell.” 

Her last word came out as a pained gasp. Dimitri turned and caught a glimpse of her pressing a hand to her chest as she retreated to her tent. 

Her spine, perhaps. He knew she had been substantially weakened after the battle of Garreg Mach. 

Dimitri turned to look once more over the Tailtean plains. A slight wind stirred the grass as the storm grew slowly closer and in the rustling he made out words. 

_ Dimitri. My son. Save us. Please. We’ve suffered so long. You’ve delayed so many years.  _

Lightning flickered and for a moment the shadows of long grass and the shallow river morphed in a field of bodies, hands bursting from the soil, grasping towards him. 

Someone ran an ice cold finger down his cheek and he twitched despite himself. 

That was the worst part about being mad. He had learned to live with the whispering voices, learned to ignore the screams, learned not to stare at the specters, but even with years of practice, he still flinched when the dead reached out with their hands. 

Fear and shame washed over him and he turned away from the plains. 

He slept poorly that night.

His dreams were of Duscur, as they always were, as they had been for nine years. Always the same. He emerged from his hiding spot, wandered through the burned ruins of the carriages alone. 

His father’s body had been easy to find. They had slit his belly open and his cold fingers wrapped around his waist as he tried to hold his guts in. The effigy on his tomb in Fhirdiad showed him as though he was sleeping, but Dimitri had seen the awful indignity of his true death. He had shaken his father’s blood slick hand for ten minutes trying to wake him. 

In his memories, he recalled he had been crying, but tears did not come to him anymore. 

Glenn’s body was always next. He had burned. There had still been a shred of life left when Dimitri had found him. Without the Fraldarius medallion partially embedded in the scorched flesh of his chest, Dimitri never would have known him. Glenn had cried a high wailing sound for a few minutes before his breath failed and he died. 

The dream continued beyond memory. Dimitri walked through an endless field of charred corpses. 

There was Mercedes, her eyes staring up at the sky, the bottom half of her body dissolving to dust as he watched. Beside her was Ashe, an arrow through his heart that scorched the skin around it. 

He looked further and the field went on. Linhardt of the Black Eagles, twitching slightly around the enormous ballista bolt buried in his gut. Lorenz of the Golden Deer with blood pouring from his mouth. 

And more. Rodrigue with his arm ripped away. Felix beside him, his skull crushed from the side. Ingrid with her throat torn out. Sylvain’s face split down the middle. Annette pale and singed with arcane runes. Dedue with his chest cracked open, black tendrils beginning to spill out.

And behind them, an enormous creature lay dying. 

White wings stained red with blood. Broken ivory horns and a glassy eye. It shuddered and the endless field of the dead shook beneath them. 

He woke up covered in sweat, shaking, tangled in his blankets. For a moment, all he could do was lay there in the darkness, head clutched in his hands until his breathing eventually slowed. 

Such disgusting weakness. What right did he have to wake in terror when it was never him dying on the ground? 

Because it was _never_ him. 

No matter how much he wished it. 

He lay awake for the remaining hours until dawn. It had started to rain and water slid through the cracks in the tent and made the ground beneath muddy and wet. Even once the night was ending, the sky remained so dark it was nearly impossible to tell. 

He forced himself to eat, gagging slightly as he swallowed tasteless hard provisions that turned to dust in his mouth. When he’d caught glimpses of himself in the last year, he’d seen his cheeks growing hollow and he knew his ribs pressed through the skin of his sides now. As long as he did not grow too weak to fight, it did not matter. 

When the rest of the camp woke, it was pouring rain. Large droplets bounced off of armor with a metallic ping and the field below was likely already turned to mud. It would probably be to their benefit. The three armies lacked the funds to support much cavalry. 

In the far distance, barely visible in the increasingly close flickers of lightning, Dimitri could make out lines of soldiers. Tall Faerghus pines obscured the full size of the army approaching them, but it wouldn’t be much longer. 

Claude was laying out maps when Dimitri entered the tent. Rodrigue stood beside him, flipping through a final report on their numbers awkwardly with one hand. His eyes crinkled slightly when he saw Dimitri and he nodded his head deferentially. Unbidden, the image of the old man lying bloody on the ground flashed into his head. 

A cold hand cupped his cheek and Dimitri suppressed the shiver as best as he could. 

“Well, I hope you’re excited,” Claude said, his hooded green eyes narrow with anger, although he spoke casually. “You’ve certainly invited a whole party out there.” 

Dimitri did not reply. He had no interest in soothing the Alliance leader’s temper. 

“We have several advantages,” Rodrigue answered on his behalf. “Our men are better resolved and better trained. The rain and the river will prevent them from breaking our lines with armored knights and our position is better for archers.” 

“Oh, we might pull off a victory here,” Claude shrugged. “I’m just a little curious to see how you retake Fhirdiad with a thousand surviving soldiers. We should be rebuilding our forces and gathering information. Our numbers were barely enough to defend the monastery as it stood before.” 

Edelgard entered then, throwing off an oilskin cloak slick with rainwater. She wore her cuirass already and carried a helmet beneath her arm. 

“We should go form the lines,” she said briskly. “Claude, Rodrigue, be prepared should they bring reinforcements from either side. Shamir has heard rumors from the locals about Adrestian troops moving through this area.” 

“Better and better,” Claude mumbled under his breath. 

Edelgard nodded towards Dimitri before drawing the cloak back over her shoulders. Rodrigue seemed to want to say something, raising his hand toward Dimitri, so he followed her quickly out. 

The battalions were forming up on the plains. Sylvain appeared occupied deciding whether or not to dismount in the thick mud. Ingrid was glancing nervously at the stormy sky as she prepared to take flight. Annette stood with her eyes fixed on the enemy, her hand clasped in Caspar’s as they waited for the signal. 

“Boar,” Felix’s voice cut through the sound of rain. Dimitri prepared himself to ignore another rant. The man might have a sharp tongue, but it did little to cut him now. 

Instead, however, Felix just stared at him, amber eyes blinking away the drops of rain. Finally, he spoke, giving Dimitri a withering glare before he walked away. 

“Don’t do anything stupid today.”

Drums and horns echoed over the field as the Agarthans cleared the woods and formed ranks. A roll of thunder crashed over the plains and the rain intensified, making the enemy into a grey blur. 

Dimitri tightened his grip on his lance. He craved the battle ahead. In combat there was no room for his thoughts and the fog seemed to melt away. Shedding blood was simple and pure and the dead fell silent as he added to their number. 

Felix thought that he would be reckless, charging into the thick and getting pinned or easily out maneuvered. It couldn’t be further from the truth. Now was the only time that the anger left him and he felt in control. The boar might command him off of the field, but with blood in the air he was the predator, the hunter, the lion. 

“For a free Fódlan!” Edelgard’s voice cried from nearby and a roar of approval welled up from the men behind her. 

“Give no quarter,” he commanded in return and the army rushed forward. 

The mud sucked at boots and the advance was slow and methodical. Wind sent their flying calvary spinning in the air as they were the first to clash over the river. With the water so high there were only a few fords shallow enough to cross. 

As the armies met, red swirled in the current and fallen bodies began to clog the flow of the water. Dimitri saw the Agarthan cavalry floundering in the mud, horses slipping and spooking as another bolt of lightning forked through the sky overhead. 

An enemy wyvern dived for Dimitri, but he avoided the stroke of the axe and countered with a jab that sent the animal rolling to the ground. He dispatched the rider swiftly, feeling the Crest surging in his veins, allowing him to cut cleanly through the iron helm like it was thin cloth. 

“Your highness,” Dedue shouted from somewhere nearby as arrows began to hit the ground around them. One of them glanced off of his shoulder with a metallic ring. Shields were going up as the volleys kept coming and the charge ground to a halt. 

Another arrow hit him in the left arm, this one hard enough to piece armor, but not deep enough to do more than break the skin.

“Take the heavy infantry ahead,” Dimitri ordered Dedue as arrows clattered uselessly against his massive shield. His head felt cold and clear. “Break the archers and free the fords for us.” 

“Hubert, join him,” Edelgard called from nearby. She was glancing at the western edge of the field, towards the pines. “Let them cover you and ensure they cross the river.” 

“My lady-” Hubert began. He was beside Edelgard as always, calling down swirling dark energy to keep back any who tried to approach her. 

“Cut a path for me,” she said firmly. “I will follow.” 

Hubert nodded at that and obeyed. 

Dimitri and Edelgard were alone to hold the western flank. Edelgard glanced at the woods again, her brows drawn with concern. Dimitri tensed, waiting to strike or to rush onward if she was wrong. 

A voice from far away called out something inarticulate and a horn blew from the hills behind them. The rain and the clash of arms was nearly deafening, but in a moment the signal was clear. 

Imperial soldiers were pouring out from the trees, attempting to pin them and force their lines forward and into the bottleneck at the deadly river crossing. 

Edelgard caught his eye and he nodded. They moved in tandem. 

Few moments of his life could compare to that feeling. His body was singing with power, each strike perfect and each movement strong and precise. His mind shifted into total focus and alignment. 

And beside him, Edelgard seemed to read his intentions. She cleaved through armor with her axe and he was there behind her to spear the warrior rushing in to fill the gap. There was something exhilarating about their skill as a team, something that made the air crackle like another lightning strike was eminent. 

Blood spilled over them and the rain washed it away. Dimitri bared his teeth and he was not sure if he was smiling. The dead had no cause to chastise him while he was doing their grim work. And if Edelgard fought by his side for now, she was nothing but another powerful predator. Guilt was for men, and right then they were animals. 

Something cold touched his face. A finger, sliding down his cheek to his throat. 

Dimitri shuddered. His hands were sliding on the lance in his hands and he was covered in blood and splattered mud. Chest heaving and muscles trembling, he looked around. 

The calm was gone. His arms jerked and he stumbled as an iron gauntlet nearly knocked the teeth from his jaw. There was a body at his feet choking on blood. A soldier dragged himself back, one leg severed as he screamed with fear and agony. 

A blast of fire nearly caught him, but with a wide swing of her axe, Edelgard cut the mage down. She was staring at him with alarm. 

“Dimitri,” she barked. “Focus!” 

He looked over her shoulder, unsure if what his eye showed him was real or not. This could not happen now. This had never happened on the field before.

But Edelgard followed his gaze and he saw her brow furrow, which meant it was real. Thank the Goddess it was _real_ , even if it was terrible. 

A man with white hair stood at the edge of the woods. He wore robes of black, white, and brilliant gold, much different from his simple grey of before. In one hand a long spined sword burned like a brand pulled from the fire. 

Dimitri remembered the feeling of fingers on his throat, of feeling helpless like he hadn’t felt since he was thirteen years old walking through a field of burned bodies. He remembered the man’s voice speaking in time with his own, anticipating his words. 

It was already so difficult to sort out what was real, and the impossibility of the Ashen Demon made it even harder. 

Edelgard backed up and grabbed Dimitri roughly by the shoulder. 

“We only win if it is impossible to lose,” she said fiercely. Her grip was desperate. She could tell he was cracking, breaking down suddenly and for no reason in the midst of a fight. “Remember that, Dimitri, I need you now!”

Byleth stepped forward through the pools of water and blood, mixing into a slurry between them, and the thunder crashed overhead. 

Edelgard drew a hand axe from her belt and flung it. Byleth stepped out of the way. 

Dimitri steadied himself and moved to a defensive position. Two against one should make for an easy victory, but nothing about Byleth could be accounted for with reason. 

The distance between them closed and Edelgard swung with her axe while Dimitri jabbed a quick strike forward with the lance. Byleth parried the strike and ducked beneath the blade of the axe, the Sword of the Creator lashing forward and tearing through the armor at Edelgard’s side. She grunted with pain as the bladed segments contracted, ripping away metal and flesh together. 

Dimitri used the opportunity to swing for Byleth’s legs, hoping to knock him off-balance. 

Byleth was ready, as though this were nothing but a stage fight at the opera, rehearsed and scripted to be graceful and inevitable.  He spun back and into a new stance while the elongated sword whipped around Dimitri’s leg and dragged him to the ground. 

“Why join this fight?” Edelgard yelled, blocking his next blow although it sent her reeling back. “Your masters do not risk themselves at the field today. Why should a king stoop to our level?” 

“You say that and I pause to explain,” Byleth spoke, his voice hoarse, as though he has not used it for weeks. “Your companion parts the head from my shoulders while I try to tell you the joy it brings me to best you. The dream ends again. Try once more.” 

Dimitri felt the lance knocked from his hands as Byleth grabbed it mid swing and ripped it away without turning to look. He rolled to the side and narrowly avoided a cleaving slash from the Sword of the Creator as he scrambled for his weapon. 

Edelgard covered him with a massive swing, but Byleth parried the blow and the axe spun out from her hands. Dimitri stared up at her as she faced Byleth, weaponless. 

Her violet eyes were flashing, white strands of hair whipping around her face. She had not lost hope. 

Instead, she was furious. 

“It’s time then,” she growled, “for you to _wake_.”

She pressed a hand to her chest, and Dimitri saw tendrils of black snaking down her arms from beneath the cuirass. 

A wet popping sound made her gasp with pain as her joints seemed to break and her limbs stretched. The armor on her legs and torso was webbed with black veins, hardening into plates and scales. A few tendrils reached her face, bursting forth through the skin of her cheeks and filling the whites of her eyes with liquid black. 

A horrible rattling moan came from her lungs as her arms lengthened and her fingers sharpened to deadly points. From the black carapace now covering her elongated chest, skeletal black wings burst forth from her back. The corruption had parasitized her, leaving only her half-transformed head recognizable like a child’s doll or puppet. 

Byleth’s red eyes narrowed. 

Dimitri took the moment to lunge for his lance and pull it from the mud where it had fallen. 

The Sword of the Creator flashed through the air and the husk of Edelgard moved faster than his eye could follow, her long bladed fingers slicing and blocking the flurry of blows. Dark magic surged over her, sending blue-violet bursts of magic crackling like lightning. 

Byleth dodged them with expert speed, but the Ashen Demon’s usually smooth face was now drawn with effort. 

Dimitri shed the cloak and furs from his shoulders and leapt unencumbered into the fight. Byleth pivoted to block his blow, but could not counter before Edelgard had nearly caught him with a burst of swirling dark winds. 

Give him no way to win, Dimitri thought. Drive him into the arms of the monster then. He pushed forward, taking a slash across his shoulder that made his hand shake and slip on the grip of his weapon, but not retreating. 

Byleth growled with frustration and the sword reformed into a single blade, the segments compressing back for a closer fight. With a perfectly timed kick, he sent Dimitri down to his knee, one leg shaking and unable to bear weight. 

Dimitri blocked another swing from the sword just in time, but the next strike knocked him back to the ground, gasping as the breath was knocked from his lungs. 

The husk of Edelgard tried to wrap its arms around Byleth, encircling him in a deadly briarpatch embrace of sharp spines. 

With a furious sound, Byleth flung himself forward and the sword plunged through the dark armored carapace of her chest. 

For a moment, the field was silent and still. 

Edelgard gasped a few times, the sword still lodged in her chest. Black was melting off of her, dripping and sizzling on the ground where it fell. Her long arms went limp, her over stretched body shrinking into a crumpled ruin of her former stature. Where the black had burst through the skin of her face, Dimitri saw blood welling up instead. 

But then one hand twitched. Her feet scraped the ground. 

Edelgard pulled herself forward, the tip of the sword emerging from her back. 

She reached for her leg and raised a tiny dagger, a familiar weapon. She brought it down directly into Byleth’s chest. 

There was a sound like metal scraping across stone. 

The Ashen Demon spasmed as the short blade cut through his robes. Edelgard’s misshapen arm barely managed to pull the knife back, an inch of the tip red. Before she could attempt to plunge it down again, he ripped the sword back out of her and pressed his hand to his chest to stem the blood. His eyes were wide, shocked. 

“Fall back!” Byleth called out. “Fall back!” 

And he lurched back towards the woods, his soldiers swarming back around him as they retreated. 

Dimitri still lay in the cold mud of Tailtean, sheets of rain soaking him to the bone. He could hear the shouts of triumph around him. The Agarthans were retreating and the field would soon be won. 

Slowly, Dimitri rolled to his hands and knees and he dragged himself over to the fallen heap that had once been Edelgard. 

Her breastplate had split open where the sword had rammed through her and her chest was a mess of blood and bone. As he held her head, he could tell that most of her joints were cracked or dislocated from the transformation. But, she was herself again for the few moments of life she had left. 

And she looked up at him with tender eyes. His sister. His friend. 

“Is he…?” she asked in a breathless whisper. Through the blood in her mouth and the state of her lungs, he only made out her words through the movement of her lips. 

“He fled,” Dimitri said. Edelgard panted and wheezed as blood bubbled at her lips. 

“I tried,” she mouthed at him. “I tried to…” 

“El, don’t, _don’t_ ,” Dimitri said, feeling his hands starting to tremble. “Don’t go yet.” 

“Take it,” she gasped, fingers numbly closing over the dagger still in her palm. “Cut a path to the future you want. Not mine. I know you’d never, ha, ah, never want to fight for mine.” 

A smile that was half-pained grimace crossed her face. He reached for her hand and she pressed the dagger against his palm. Her fingers were cold as frost. 

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered. 

Edelgard’s chest heaved, trying to draw a breath her lungs could not hold. Then her eyes unfocused. The tension ebbed away from her body. Her ruined face rolled to the side and she was still. 

He kept his fingers laced with hers until they went numb. He was shivering. 

The storm was weakening and the rain slowed to a drizzle. Dimitri sat without moving. The field around him was soaked in blood. The still faces of soldiers stared up senselessly to the sky. He could no longer tell which ones wore Kingdom livery and which Imperial armor. 

The corpses stretched away endlessly, just as in the dream. How many of them, he thought, were of his own making? 

He wondered for a moment if he was dead as well. His wounds didn’t hurt, although he could tell they were bleeding. Maybe if he searched he would find his own body lying where he’d fallen. Maybe his own hands were stiff and cold because he was nothing but a cursed spirit, wandering the plains like a carrion bird. 

Distantly, he became aware of shouting and he raised his head to see Dedue slogging through the mud towards him. Beyond, Dimitri saw that banners were being raised. Victory drums sounded from the distant hills. 

“My lady!” 

The cry split through Dimitri’s numbness. At first he did not recognize the voice. It was panicked and cracked, the words breaking with emotion. 

“Get away from her!” 

Dimitri barely managed to move out of the way before Hubert was at her side, his hands stroking the sides of her face, pressing against her flayed chest. The other man’s breath came in short gasps as he knelt over her. 

Dimitri turned away. He should not watch this. He did not deserve to witness such a moment. 

But even as Dedue grabbed his arm and helped him back towards the healers, he could not block out the howl of anguish that tore from Hubert’s throat. 

They bound and closed his wounds, but he could not get warm. Dedue helped him out of his armor, into warmer drier clothes, but the shivering would not stop. He explained to Claude what had happened, but his own voice sounded like he was speaking underwater. 

He kept the dagger unsheathed in his hand. No one questioned it. 

Because he had hated her, after all. No one expected much from him but dull anger anymore. 

Dedue fretted over his injuries and his temperature, but did not give him more than a grave nod when he explained how she’d died. Perhaps Dedue had expected him to be laughing. 

By evening the storm had faded to light rain. The bodies had been buried and the wounded moved from the field. The losses were smaller than expected, but for one glaring exception. Her body lay in state at her tent. Dimitri spotted Felix huddled outside, an arm wrapped protectively around Bernadetta’s shoulders as they entered. 

He did not go to see her. Her friends had heard him vow her death countless times. They would assume he had come to gloat. 

Fhirdiad. It had all been for Fhirdiad. That was the only thing left for him now. 

The horses were tied up under a few trees to provide some shelter. If he rode the rest of the night, he could reach the capital by morning. All it would take was one clean opening and he could have Thales. 

Perhaps the Goddess would grant him one. He had always been so uncannily lucky. 

“Where are you going?” 

He had already bridled the horse when her voice stopped him. She always did like to hang around the stables. 

“It doesn’t concern you.” 

Marianne made her way through the huddled animals, gently reassuring them as she picked her way towards him. 

“You’re going to Fhirdiad,” she observed. “To end your life.” 

“I am going to kill Thales,” he snapped. “My life is inconsequential. I have never sought to end it, merely to use it in service of those who are lost and powerless.” 

“I see,” Marianne said, looking down. She still held her hands tightly in front of her, fingers linked together like she feared they would break free if she did not clench them back. “I feel the same sometimes. My life is such a terrible burden that the Goddess must spare it because she wants me to make something of myself.”

“You have,” he said fiercely. “You have saved hundreds of lives while I have taken… I have never thought to even count them. Let me go.”

_ Dimitri. Save us. Why do you delay? We miss you. We miss you.  _

Soft voices whispered at the edge of his hearing. He felt his courage flagging. 

An ice cold hand cupped his chin, the fingers long and sharp. 

“I used to believe I brought misfortune to everything I touched,” Marianne said and her quiet voice cut through the noise in his head. “I would pray every day to vanish. I didn’t think then, that I was asking for death, but…” 

“What would you have me do, then?” Dimitri interrupted before she could say it. “How can I be so selfish when there are so many who have died unavenged and hopeless? I am not as mad as they say, I understand that my actions are disgusting, unforgivable. There is no future for me beyond this war, there is nothing left for me if I don’t at least try to make their sacrifices meaningful.” 

Marianne reached up and brushed some of the wet strands of hair from his face. Her fingers were calloused and dry from her work in the infirmary. 

And warm. So warm against his freezing skin. He stopped speaking. 

“I would have you live,” she said, her own voice thick with pain. “Because I could not bear it if you left me behind. Choose any future you would like and please live.” 

Her hand rested on his cheek. He felt the cold rain on his face turn hot as it ran down to his chin. 

He could not speak. She passed her thumb below his eye to brush away the tears. 

In one hand he still held Edelgard’s knife, his knife. Slowly, he returned it to its sheath. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank Sothis someone finally gave that poor boy a warm hand. I hope ya'll caught that Edelgard's final act may have some... repercussions. She died as she lived, hardcore af. Next up, we desperately need to check in on Hubert. Hope that dude is okay... 
> 
> Thank you for the comments! Commenters will all be able to unlock my S support. You guys make the maddening classic mode of my life into normal casual.


	22. The City Without Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert carries out Edelgard's final wish. Shamir backs him up.

She would have wanted to be laid to rest beside her father. 

She would have wanted a statue, an inscription, a message. 

She would have asked to lie in state in Enbarr so that the people might see her, know her as human, embrace her as but a woman, although clearly a woman of superior ability. 

She would have forbidden the priests of Seiros to deceive the common folk and claim she had gone to abide in the heavens with the Goddess. 

She would have been prepared. She would have already ordered the black banners and meticulously planned the route of the processession and chosen her clothing. 

It would have been armor. 

She would not have wanted to be buried in the earth beneath a simple stone in the graveyard of Garreg Mach. It was the very heart of the church. And for all that she was, Lady Edelgard had been afraid of small, dark spaces. 

The plot had been decorated. 

A clump of wildflowers, many of which were simply weeds, pulled with the crushing grip of Caspar. A strand of beads arranged in a pattern whose significance Petra surely understood. A shroud gorgeously embroidered with a tawny-feathered eagle that could only be the skilled work of Bernadetta. A candle and a single red rose, tasteful, rare, clearly from Dorothea. And another pointless letter from Ferdinand full of advice no one would read. 

He had brought nothing to offer, of course. He had already offered everything. 

The twilight at Garreg Mach was peaceful. It was late summer and insects sung in the evenings. Hubert stood before the grave. Composed, poised, stoic, and dry-eyed. She would have expected no less. He would not fail her again. 

There were still plans to be made. The path stretched on ahead. He would follow it to its conclusion.

Footsteps clicked behind him on the stairs. Probably Dorothea again, trying to ply him with food and comfort he did not need. 

Or else Ferdinand. The man had grown even more insufferable of late. He had somehow managed to bribe one of his noble contacts into sending a bag of Dagdan coffee beans and insisted on brewing it day and night for Hubert’s benefit. He had no need for the substance to sharpen his mind at the moment. 

But as Hubert glanced over his shoulder, none of the former Black Eagles had come to offer their obnoxious condolences. It was the King of Faerghus. 

He was still enormous, a huge dark shadow of a man, but Dimitri no longer inspired much fear. He moved and held himself differently, carefully, like with each step he feared he might shatter. 

Furthermore, he had developed the disturbing habit of allowing frequent tears to slide unchecked down his face from that hateful remaining eye. 

Ever since the battle, the King of Faerghus had been pathetically repentant. Acceptance came easily and undeservedly to such a man. 

It set Hubert on edge as he was forced to watch the Kingdom nobles embrace their lord as reborn, as even cannier minds like Claude who ought to know better reached out hands in forgiveness. 

“I am sorry to disturb you,” Dimitri mumbled as Hubert turned back to stare at the grave, not bothering to honor him with a nod. 

“Another apology,” Hubert said dryly. “You must be growing tired of repeating yourself.” 

“If now is not a good time, I will…” Dimitri said, already retreating at Hubert’s tone. Such a pitiful creature. 

“Say what you have come to say, great king of Faerghus,” Hubert sighed. “If you intend to beg for my absolution, you will be disappointed.” 

“I spoke with Claude,” Dimitri said quickly. “I will not pursue Fhirdiad any longer. He will take a small group to investigate the ruins of Shambhala instead. But we will not act without your approval.” 

Hubert turned his head at that and stared blankly at Dimitri. Another contemptible tear was welling in his eye. As he understood the implications of the statement, Hubert felt a laugh welling up in him. 

“Well, this is interesting,” he chucked as Dimitri waited. “Have you elected me successor to Lady Edelgard? Am I to be crowned?” 

“You were most in her confidence,” Dimitri admitted, not entirely denying the claim. Hubert felt his nostrils flare with disgust. 

“Act as you see fit, oh great king,” he spat. “If you seek information, barter for it. Bargain with the princess of Brigid or the little flytrap or any of the rest. There is no emperor in Adrestia now.” 

“I understand,” Dimitri nodded. But he did not retreat up the stairs yet. 

Instead, he took something wrapped in a dark cloth from his belt and held it out. Hubert glanced down at the offering. 

It was Lady Edelgard’s dagger. An old ornamental thing, not particularly sharp anymore. 

“She gave me this,” Dimitri whispered, the tear finally slipping down over his cheek. If he hadn’t known how deranged the man was, Hubert might have thought this was some excessive theatric. “She asked me to cut a path to a future I could believe in. But I think… I think you are the best suited to that task. You knew her path better than anyone.” 

Hubert’s jaw clenched. 

“If Lady Edelgard entrusted this to you, then I will not deny her wish,” he said, brushing past Dimitri and climbing the stairs behind him. “My loyalty is not so easily abandoned.” 

He walked briskly back towards the knight’s hall, away from Dimitri and his nauseating grief. 

While the weak might mourn, he still had orders to carry out. Perhaps in those first moments of shock he had lost his composure, but it did not change the fact that the war was not yet won. His duties persisted until Lady Edelgard’s mission was achieved. 

If Claude did intend to find Shambhala, Hubert needed to act quickly. He would require backup where he was going. Petra or Bernadetta would be most suitable for quiet work like this, but neither of them had proven capable yet of controlling their emotions. 

Shamir, then. Shamir could always be counted upon to do her job efficiently. 

He found her at the archery range although it was nearly dusk. Prudent of her to continue training despite the war, to keep herself sharp and capable of hitting her target even when the light was poor. 

“I have a task for you,” Hubert said as he approached her from the shadows. Her eyes took him in and to his relief there was no revolting pity on her face. 

“Better add it to your debt,” Shamir answered. “My fees are getting steeper.” 

“If we complete this mission,” Hubert said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You might just have your payout.” 

They set out under the cover of dark, moving north into the Kingdom. 

Hubert’s informants had reported that most of the villages were in a state of concealed revolt after news had spread of the destruction of Arianrhod. Soldiers were defecting from Agarthan control in droves, but the threat of poisoned water or Titanus constructs kept the people from rioting. 

He slept a few hours in an abandoned barn in the midst of what had once been pastureland, but was now unusably polluted. Shamir kept the first watch while he prepared to catch a few hours of rest. 

“When this is over, will you return to Dagda?” Hubert asked her as he removed his boots and rubbed a few blisters. 

“Not sure,” Shamir replied shortly. Taciturn as always. He expected that would be the end of it and lay his head down. She continued after a moment, however. “I’ve grown a bit fond of Fódlan, I guess.” 

“I find that unbelievable,” Hubert replied with faint amusement. “Your stay here has been, even by the standards of Fódlan, particularly turbulent.” 

“True,” Shamir said and then leaned her head back on the dusty wooden wall of the barn. “But I buried a partner in Dagda. Not sure I want to return to that yet while there’s still work to be done.” 

Hubert’s hand clenched involuntarily as he pulled his cloak tighter around him and drifted into a doze. 

When he woke, Shamir traded places and he waited a few hours watching the sun setting over the barren pasture until it was time to wake her. Even asleep, her reflexes were acutely trained and he had to take care not to move if he didn’t want her eyes to flick open and her hand to rest on her knife. 

They met with another of Hubert’s network in a village crossroads a few hours from Fhirdiad.  She had clothes and a cart of firewood prepared to get them through the city gates. There were also a pair of Agarthan trackers dug from the necks of dead men that they could use as a cover once they were inside to gain access to the upper districts. 

“Once we’re through the gates, we will need to separate,” Hubert told her as they changed into the simple rustic clothing behind the wagon. “We can rendezvous at the safehouse after the mission is complete. If either of us is captured, leave immediately. Otherwise, I will move at your signal.” 

“What signal would you have me use?” Shamir asked, wrapping a loose shawl around her head to shield her face and hair. 

“I think burning the system hub to the ground will be signal enough,” Hubert replied. “Do not attempt to enter the palace after that. My informant is somewhat… delicate of temper.” 

They entered through the gates of Fhirdiad.  Iron and oak had been replaced by black steel and deadly currents of arcane power. 

Shamir split off at once to make her way up by the river, taking the subtler path of rooftops and unblocked alleys. Hubert headed for the upper quarter on the surface streets. 

He lingered for long periods in corners until he watched the arcane barriers lowering for groups of merchants and then he slipped in behind them. The heavy footsteps of Titanus constructs let him know when to change his course or double back to avoid patrols. 

This had been his work for five years now. 

It was not quite the usual business of the von Vestra family, but it suited him well enough. His father had played games of whispers and poison, hauling men away in the night before they could become threats or arranging swift marriages for women who overplayed their hands. Hubert walked along a knife blade and never looked down. 

He was the emperor’s shadow, after all, the backdrop to her burning flame. He needed no recognition for his deeds, merely the satisfaction that whatever Edelgard needed, he could accomplish. 

Whatever she  _ had _ needed. 

She would not have appreciated being spoken of in the past tense. 

In the upper quarters of the city, many of the stylish noble households had been obliterated to make room for the sleek Agarthan-style complexes. They preferred to nest together still, like a hive of wasps. If they missed their underground warren so much, Hubert would happily bury them there again. 

He passed pale faces on the street. Some of the mages were ancient while many more might have only been recruited in his lifetime. Many from the Fhirdiad school of sorcery had defected to the Agarthan side once the capital was taken. A few wore trackers around their throats, marking them as untrustworthy but useful minds to be worked in the labs. 

At one point Lady Edelgard had lived in Fhirdiad. He tried to imagine her walking the street beside him. 

Her hair would have been soft brown, her smile unrestrained. Now the city that had been the backdrop of the last innocent year of her life was a center for those who had tried to break her. 

Who had _broken_ her. 

Hubert was used to spending weeks apart from her. It was unnerving how easily he forgot that when he returned from this mission, she would still be dead. 

He followed the map Annette had drawn him until he arrived at the complex he wanted. This part was the gamble. 

Hubert took a deep breath and knocked on the door. 

There had been a time at the monastery when Dorothea had asked if Hubert was in love with Lady Edelgard. He had replied that his feelings were closer to love than to hate, which Dorothea read as a tactful evasion. 

In truth, it was that the idea of his devotion being the product of some romantic infatuation seemed diminishing. Perhaps some part of him had been in love with her, but it did not matter

While he often gave the excuse that the von Vestra family had always been the devoted servants of House Hresvelg, that was clearly not the case either. After all, he had been willing to destroy his own family and imprison his own father for Lady Edelgard. 

But in the end, family was what she had chosen for herself. She had elected to share her final moments and entrust her dreams to a stepbrother she barely remembered. She had to have known Hubert would have been willing to serve her there as well, but instead she had ordered him away. There had been times when he had disobeyed commands for her benefit.

Perhaps she had not trusted him. Perhaps he had not proven trustworthy.

Nevertheless, he had decided to place his bets with familial bonds. While they might have little hold on his heart, it was clear that for most that was not the case.

When he entered the royal palace of Fhirdiad the next night, he found parts of it shockingly intact. 

The Agarthans had apparently decided to keep the grand banquet hall and the throne room unchanged, although set beside the Agarthan additions, the effect was almost parodic. Carved stone and marble appeared drab beside blackened steel and arcane lights. 

The statues of the kings of Faerghus had been beheaded. Hubert slipped quietly past the massive body of King Loog, who had first broken with the Adrestian empire, likely with illicit help from the Agarthans themselves. Despite the old alliance, they had decapitated him as well. 

Such was the fate of all those who sought to wield their strength, he thought bitterly. We often create the things that destroy us. 

Bells and buzzing sirens rang out over the city as Hubert walked quickly to the arcane lift pad that would bring him to the top of the towers. Shamir had done her work well, as expected. A red glow through the windows showed him where the city was burning. 

When he reached the top of the tower, he heard voices coming from further down the hallways. 

“The system can’t reboot until we find out what is happening at the central hub for the network,” an irritable female voice spoke as shoes clicked against the smooth metal floors. “We’re blind, essentially.” 

“The technicians in Enbarr can manage for a few weeks,” a male voice replied. “I have heard the Reborn King of Liberation has recovered well from his wound. If the Nabatean loyalists make a move, Enbarr has the capacity to initiate launch.” 

“He has recovered from the wound, but given the experimental nature of the project, I would not be so quick to dismiss it,” the female voice said again. “Now come, Odesse, there’s some disturbance at the palace gates. Another people’s uprising, no doubt.”

“We have given them the keys to true power and wealth and still they riot to restore their oppressor God and their savage king,” the man laughed as the voice passed down the hall. 

Hubert followed them once they were out of earshot, keeping his steps soft as he moved down the hallway. He pressed a key stolen from one of the guards into the glowing panel at the door and it slid open. 

“Odesse?” a deep voice asked from inside. Hubert stepped through without replying. 

He was standing at the window, looking down over the city towards the fire. The lights were low, making the stark white of his hair and skin a pale bluish color. 

It was odd to think that they had met before many times. Hubert had spoken with this man, attended court functions, taken tea with him while he wore the face of Volkhard von Arundel. 

As Thales saw Hubert step into the room, a thick white eyebrow quirked with interest. His eyes were milky and pupiless, making it difficult to read his emotions. 

“Ah,” he said, “I suppose you are here because of my niece.”

“She was never your niece,” Hubert replied curtly. 

Thales turned to face him, probably running the same methodical calculations in his head that Hubert was. 

It was a small space. Both of them were skilled with dark magic, but Thales probably more so. Hubert was blocking the door, but guards would come quickly in the event of a commotion.

“I have to admit, I am impressed,” Thales finally said. “You have some natural intelligence. It is a pity you were so stubbornly close-minded when it came to our work.” 

“Killing children does tend to have that effect on people,” Hubert said with disdain. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Thales sighed. “I hear my dear niece did use some of the techniques we developed, in the end. How unfortunate that she should fail. I would have liked to see the results.” 

“You can see them embedded in the chest of that prize hound you call a king,” Hubert said, refusing to take the bait. It was a delicate game. Thales would goad him with Lady Edelgard’s death and he would do the same with Thales’ military failures. 

“Byleth has been an unparalleled success,” Thales said, raising a casual hand to rub the beard at his chin. “Some thought the experiment too risky, but the blood of Nemesis has kept him in an ideal state of compliance and dormancy.” 

“The blood of Nemesis?” Hubert repeated skeptically. What was Thales playing at with a ridiculous remark like that? “A man who has been dead a thousand years?”

Thales smiled, his white eyes still empty of feeling. 

“You should know better than most, Hubert von Vestra, that our abilities exceed those of lesser men,” Thales said. “Can we not preserve our bodies for centuries? Can we not create new flesh in the form of our enemies? Did we not kill the progenitor god and her children? Should it be so difficult for us to restore those we have lost back to life?” 

Hubert felt a cold pool of dread forming in his stomach. He knew where Thales would lead him. 

“You intend to bait me with Lady Edelgard’s life,” he said flatly. 

“We created her, Hubert,” Thales said, his voice soft, deceptively gentle. “Surely we can fix her.” 

Hubert stepped forward. 

“You created her,” he said tightly. “You gave her power and she used it to plunge a knife into your experiment’s chest. My father taught me spycraft from the cradle. I used it to leave him to rot in a jail until his death.” 

“Turn on us later, then,” Thales said with a cold smile. “It matters not to me. We will extend our game a while longer and you can get what you so desperately want.” 

“You dropped javelins of light on the fortress of Arianrhod and destroyed your own loyal servants,” Hubert retorted. 

“You might be more clever,” Thales offered, “there is always a chance of victory.” 

“You destroyed your own loyal servants and you killed a young woman,” Hubert continued, ignoring Thales and taking another step forward. “A young woman who had shown the world nothing but compassion. And in so doing, you created a problem for yourself."

Thales paused, seeming, for the first time, uncertain. 

"He’s downstairs now, making quick work of your guards. I’m afraid he was very upset when I informed him about his sister,” Hubert finished with a smile. 

Thales’ eyes narrowed and Hubert saw him tense, ready for a strike.

“You killed Lady Edelgard and I will _die_ before I let any of you touch her again,” Hubert whispered. “We always create our own destruction, no?”

He cast a spell and dark spirits swarmed around Thales, their piercing cries and grasping hands pinning him in place for a moment. 

Thales responded with lightning reflexes, and Hubert felt a wave of necrotic energy burning through his veins as they began to rot inside of him. 

He staggered, but managed to reposition the runes glowing around his arms to summon a spike of darkness from the floor, the spectral dagger catching Thales through the middle and spreading corruption within his body. 

Thales hissed in pain and then Hubert felt the floor lurch beneath him. The walls around him shivered and quaked and he felt as though his body was trying to tear itself apart. 

He staggered to his knees as Thales shook off the lingering effects of his magic with a grunt. But Hubert pushed himself back upright, feeling blood beginning to trickle from his nose and ears. 

He ignored the spellcraft and lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Thales as the distance between them finally closed. 

From his sleeve, a thinly pointed blade slid down into his hand. With all his remaining strength, he rammed the point into the side of Thales’ neck. 

Thales gasped. 

“You would… betray… her like this?” he managed to rasp as blood filled his mouth. 

Hubert stabbed him again, plunging the blade through Thales’ windpipe and silencing him. The pale body collapsed to the floor, dragging Hubert with it. 

Hubert yanked the long blade free and brought it down again. Again and again and again. One blow for each of the Hresvelg children. And more. And more. 

He plunged the knife into Thales’ shrivelled, misshapen body until his arm was aching and his gloves were soaked in blood. 

He only stopped when the point of the knife hit bone and the blade snapped. 

Then he sat on the floor beside Thales’ cooling corpse and waited. 

His orders were fulfilled. His war was won. 

He had completed the work he had promised Lady Edelgard and next he would… 

She would want him to…

There were no more tasks she had set him. 

It was a failure of imagination, perhaps. A good servant anticipates his liege’s needs before they are spoken. But what could she possibly need him for now? 

She was dead. Silent. She would not want or need anything ever, ever again. 

She would never issue a command or take a gamble or make a plan he disagreed with or stubbornly forge ahead with her sometimes terribly unbreakable will. She would never brew tea, write letters, wake from nightmares in need of reassurance, smile wearily at the end of a long night.

There was nothing left. His path ended in a sudden cliff. 

He was momentarily distracted from this line of thought when the window shattered. 

He recoiled back from the shower of glass and seconds later, Shamir swung herself through the hole and landed gracefully on the floor in front of him.

“Difficult to get up here,” she remarked flatly. “Did you know the Death Knight is downstairs?”

“I was aware,” Hubert said, his voice trembling only slightly. “I believe I ordered you to leave the city once your mission was finished.”

“I’m a mercenary, not a soldier,” Shamir said, “You’d have to pay me for that. Come on.”

She grasped his arm to help him up, but he made no attempt to rise. 

“The work is done,” he said, staring down at the lifeless body of Thales. “I’d like to rest.”

Shamir did not reply, but her hand did not release his shoulder either. 

“Return to Garreg Mach,” Hubert commanded her. “Tell them what has occurred here. Ferdinand will see that you are paid.” 

“The work is done?” Shamir asked. Hubert nodded. 

Shamir frowned. “So, tonight you have also managed to reclaim the Adrestian Empire? And you have dismantled the nobility? You have ended the priority given to Crest bearing heirs? You have restored the Church’s revised histories to their original form? You have punished those who performed experiments on unwilling creatures?”

Hubert took a breath. His voice failed him. 

“Impressive, for one night,” Shamir said bluntly. “Unless this is your way of trying to cheat me out of a new contract when _ the work is not yet done _ . Because I have lost a partner and I have lost a war before and the work _still_ has not ended.” 

“I am…” Hubert spoke hoarsely. He closed his eyes. “Tired.” 

Shamir made an irritated sigh through her nose. 

“Then I’ll carry you out,” she said. “And then tomorrow we start the next job.” 

Slowly, Hubert began to push himself back to his feet. 

“Do you need to weep?” Shamir asked bluntly as she steadied him. Coming from her, the question was amusing. 

“I would rather not,” Hubert replied with a hard smile. 

“Good,” Shamir said. “That would have been unpleasant for us both.” 

They stole out of the city before dawn, a pair of quiet shadows. 

Shadows, paradoxically, required a flame to cast light. It turned out that the world was still burning. 

She would have wanted him to put it out. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is literally nothing sadder to me than the possibility of Hubert outliving Edelgard. As you can probably tell, we are in the serious endgame now. The next chapter will be from the perspective of one very significant character we haven't heard from yet. You may have noticed that something odd seems to be up with Byleth. 
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and theories and engagement with this massive 100k+ novel I accidentally wrote about Fire Emblem (ahhhhh)! Future commenters will receive a perfect tea time complete with extended facial observation and the inexplicable increase in charm that will make us both more effective field commanders.


	23. Oath of a New Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ashen Demon wakes up.

He was dreaming about the girl again. 

She was sitting on a throne, slumped to one side, her head leaning against the armrest. The room around them was stone, ancient, but lit with pale green arcane light. Through the cavernous space echoed the sound of distant chanting. The words were unintelligible and constant, ebbing and surging like waves breaking on a beach.

The girl stirred in her sleep, shifting her head into a more comfortable position with her elbow as a pillow. 

His chest hurt. Something in there had not healed. He could feel it moving, spasming occasionally, and sending bursts of pain radiating through his body. 

The girl stirred again, a sigh of discomfort escaping her mouth. 

_Sotiredsomuchtohealandastarfallingthroughtheheavensacanyonbuiltwithtemplesandcolumnsamancomeswhilesheissleepingsomeoneiscomingsomeoneiscoming._

The girl’s eyes fluttered open. She blinked a few times, hazy with sleep. 

“It is very rude to interrupt a moment of repose.” She spoke with an accusatory tone. 

He had never heard her voice before. 

“Come to me,” the girl said imperiously with a wave of her hand. “I wish to have a look at you.” 

He stepped closer. Was his hair longer? He ( _she_?) suddenly could not recall. 

“I have not seen the likes of you before,” she said. Her eyes were green, large in her soft, childlike face. “Who are you anyways?” 

If the girl was awake, that could only mean one thing.

Thales had explained to him the great secret of his life. He had been born a mere vessel. If the girl woke, the dream was over. He was her dream and if she ever finished her centuries long rest, he would vanish into nothingness.

The girl would walk away in his body and forget him like any other fanciful vision of her sleep. 

“I am a ghost,” he said. His voice reverberated in the large chamber, repeating and fading and playing in reverse. 

“Do not deceive,” the girl snapped. 

“I am a demon,” he answered instead. Her mouth flattened to a line of displeasure, but then she squinted at him and nodded. 

“Perhaps,” she said shortly. “And what is your name, demon?” 

He said nothing. It was difficult to admit that he often forgot his own name unless reminded.

These days people called him the Reborn King of Liberation. He suspected that he had another name before that. 

The girl did not seem to mind. She stretched with an enormous yawn. “How strange. I think it may be time for another nap. Ah… but I cannot seem to get comfortable. My chest feels so tight… very strange…” 

Her eyes sagged closed and she nestled her head in her arms again, pulling one leg up to better brace herself against the stone arms of the throne. Her brow furrowed as she shifted, but then her breathing evened out and she slept.

Finally, she slept again. 

He woke with a gasp. 

He was in Enbarr, sleeping in the emperor’s massive bed. Something burned inside his chest and he clenched his teeth with pain as he pressed a hand against the healed scar. 

“My king?” a servant asked from the doorway. He must have cried out in his sleep. “Shall I call a healer?” 

“The blood,” he managed to gasp, “bring the blood. She’s waking. I want more time.” 

“My king, you are not due for another treatment until-” the servant began. 

He picked up a knife from his beside and flung it at her. It stuck into the wall and she suppressed a scream in her throat.

Irritating.

Again. 

He picked up a knife from his bedside and flung it at her. It hit her in the eye and she collapsed with a strangled wail. One hand still pressed to his burning chest, he stumbled out of bed and over to her body. 

As he retrieved the knife and wiped it on her dress, the burning grew hotter. He shuddered and dropped the blade.

The sensation was unfamiliar to him, the usual still waters of his heart suddenly induced to boil. 

She was dead. He had killed her over nothing, a petty slight. What had he been thinking, she was innocent, she was a person, how could he have been so-?

No. No more of this. 

Again. 

He picked up a knife from his bedside and then slammed it into the wood. The servant suppressed a scream behind her lips. 

“I said bring me the blood,” he repeated. “Now.” 

The servant ran from the room. He lay back against the pillows. Inside of his chest he could feel something twitching, like some larvae implanted in him long ago was preparing to hatch. 

Sweat broke out on his forehead and he brushed back his hair with his fingers. How long was his hair now? When did he ( _she_?) last cut it? 

“Oh dear, it seems you are feeling this discomfort as well.” 

The familiar voice spoke close behind him and he flinched, one hand grabbing wildly for the knife again. The girl was standing, no, floating beside his bed. 

“No, no, no,” he panted, pushing himself back against the headboard and away from her. This had never happened before. She was supposed to be confined only to his deepest dreams. “Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep.” 

“I would but…” the girl patted back another yawn and then looked curiously around the room. “I felt the flow of time swirl here. Normally it is so placid.” 

“Go back to sleep,” he repeated. “It was nothing. A dream.” 

The girl looked at him with her eerie green eyes and frowned. 

“Ah, I understand,” she said, pouting slightly as she crossed her arms. “You have been borrowing power without asking. Typical human impudence.” 

“It is nothing but a dream,” he insisted. One hand rubbed circles on his chest, as though he could claw through the skin and take that terrible burning thing out. 

“What a sad little creature you are,” the girl sighed. “Ungrateful and unaware. I have known mortals like you before.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked, shivering as the pain worsened. She quirked her head to the side in confusion.

“Why am I doing what?” she asked. “Asking questions?” 

“You’re making me… hurt,” he said. “There was no pain before. I wasn’t afraid. When I killed it did not make me hurt, but now it hurts, _everything_ hurts.”

She floated up and closer to him, alighting at the end of his bed and leaning forward. She placed her face very close to his, examining him carefully as though he were an interesting work of art. 

“I see,” she murmured to herself. “It seems that while I sleep, parts of you are asleep as well. Your spirit has been dormant far too long, far too long indeed. I can only hope the damage is reversible. What a dreadful mess, ugh, and I suppose you expect me to fix it!” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to face her piercing glare. 

“Your majesty?”

He opened his eyes again and the girl was gone.

The servant stood in the doorway again, a pair of masked Agarthan mages behind her. 

“Hurry,” he commanded them, pushing himself partially upright and extending his elbow. He hardly felt the sting as the needle entered his vein. One of the mages hung the vessel of blood on the post of his bed and he felt his arm grow cold as the blood mingled with his own. 

“What are you doing?” the girl spoke sharply, although she was no longer visible. “That has been corrupted, you fool, you are hurting both of us with that!” 

He smiled as he sunk down onto the bed. She was falling asleep again. He had bought himself more time. The flowing river ran on. 

When dawn came the pain had dulled, but not vanished. It sat hot and throbbing in his chest like an infected wound.

They dressed him in white robes and cloth of gold and placed him on his own throne in his own great hall, but it was difficult not to tremble where he sat. 

“Your majesty, there is still no word from Fhirdiad,” Chilon reported. The tall armored man had black eyes, like pits of liquid tar standing out starkly from his bleached skin. “We suspect that Nabatean sympathizers have disrupted the network hub.” 

“Have the technicians here maintain close watch and send a wyvern,” Byleth replied shortly. The Agarthans could be shockingly dense when their technology failed them, as if they had forgotten that messages could be transmitted by riders as well as arcane signals. “And contact Pittacus in Shambhala. I need more blood.”

“Your majesty, Lord Thales must approve any contact with Shambhala,” Chilon said, “our most precious treasures are kept there. Protocols must be followed.” 

He stood up and plunged the Sword of the Creator through Chilon’s back. 

“What have you done?” The girl’s shocked voice came from behind him. He turned and saw she was sitting now on his throne. “Such cruelty!” 

He looked down at Chilon’s body and pulled the sword back out of his back. He felt nothing. He always felt nothing. Except now he...

“I’ll change it,” he told the girl on the throne. “I’ll do it again differently.” 

“You would take a life for sport knowing it would have no consequences?” the girl asked scornfully. “And that blade… that is… that was…” 

Again.

“Yes, protocols must be followed,” Byleth said. “But in this case, they must be broken.

“I will speak to our technicians about what might be possible,” Chilon nodded. 

“Leave me, then,” he said, one handly idly caressing the pommel of the Sword of the Creator at his side. He ran a finger around the empty space at the hilt. Something in his chest constricted and he bared his teeth. 

Chilon’s footsteps echoed out of the long cavernous room. 

“It’s all very familiar,” the girl’s voice came to torment him again. She now stood at the base of the steps before the throne, looking up at him quizzically. “How frustrating, I cannot place any of this. Even my own name is… fuzzy. And that word, Nabatean, what did he mean by that?” 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he said, struggling to keep himself from watching the girl as she skipped and floated about the room.

Why wouldn’t she sleep? Thales had kept her from waking in him for years with the treatments, why had she suddenly grown so powerful? He wanted more time. He needed more time. 

“Unfortunately for you, you do not have a choice,” she replied smugly. “We are connected. Stuck together. Trust me, after your childish display earlier, the dislike is mutual. Now tell me mortal, what is a Nabatean sympathizer?

“The schemer, the king, and the emperor,” he replied. “But the emperor is dead.” 

He remembered the feeling of splitting her ribcage open. It had been easy. Interesting. Inevitable. Another exploration. 

The girl looked at him and he saw golden glyphs flicker into being around her, spinning backwards and forwards in opposing patterns. 

“No!” he said, but she had already summoned the power. 

The emperor died at his hand again. And again. And then... 

_You have a strange aura around you… The emperor reached out her hand. A rare smile. My teacher. I had thought I would walk this path alone. She held his body in her arms. Your heart is beating again._

He gasped as the girl paused the spinning glyphs.

While his chest was heaving, the room was totally still. A mote of dust hung frozen in the air. No light shifted against the tall windows. 

“Interesting,” the girl said slyly. “Now the king.” 

He had thrown the king into the mud. He had held him by the throat easily, deciding dispassionately if he cared to snap his neck or not. An interesting game. 

_Please, lend us your strength. The king bowed his head. A self-conscious blush at praise. Professor. You seem to have all the answers. They joined hands as they walked out to the cheering crowd. They did not look back._

The pain was growing worse. He needed more blood.

The girl was doing this to him. He had no control over her anymore. She was going to consume him, inhabit the body he called his ( _her_?) own, walk away and leave him alone in the dark. 

He pushed himself to his feet, sliding on the steps and falling as he tried to make his way towards her. 

“The schemer, perhaps,” the girl said and the runes glowed brighter. 

The schemer had never been as fun as he had hoped. He ran back over the hills whenever he smelled danger. If put to his paces, what fascinating things he might have done. At the very least, he might have died. 

_The gods of fortune must be smiling on me! The schemer winked. A watchful eye and a keen mind. Hey teach. We have the strength to scale the walls between us. They fought side by side. The arrow fell as the sun broke over the horizon._

“I see,” the girl mused. “So that is how they accomplished such a thing. That man you fought together...”

“I’ll kill you,” he said, raising the sword as he stumbled towards her. Something in his chest was pounding, an uneven rhythm, and it hurt. It _hurt_. “Like I killed Seiros. I was created to destroy gods.” 

The girl’s eyes widened for a moment. She put a hand to her mouth, face etched with sudden sadness.

“My child,” she said. And suddenly he was aware that she was not a girl, not a girl at all. She was old. Unfathomably old. She was a thing with wings. “You were not created to destroy gods. You were made to become one.” 

Something in his chest cracked.

That tiny weakness where the point of a dagger had chipped against stone exploded into a web of fractures. 

He fell to his knees. It felt like he was splintering apart. He did not want the dream to end. He held on.

His fingers dug into the marble floor, growing long and sharp, turning the stone to dust. He felt something explode from his back, bone and blood and leathery skin, as his ribs expanded and shattered and reformed anew.

Spurs of horn jutted down his back, curled around the sides of his head. His jaw grew heavier, longer, and his teeth sharpened. Silver-white scales spread down his neck. 

And the sword. The sword he had still clutched in his hands. It lengthened into its many segments and he felt his body forming around it, like the core of a fruit. It was inside of him, wrapping around that burning thing still lodged in his chest. Fulfilled. 

When he spread his wings, the glass in all the windows of the Imperial palace shattered. 

The blood. He needed to put her asleep.

With a roar, he burst through the stone, the columns of the throne room collapsing and the roof caving in to bury the palace. The heavy rock hardly bruised him now. 

He was a thing with wings. No longer the man ( _woman?_ ) with white ( _green?_ ) hair and blood red ( _deep blue_ ) eyes. He cast a shadow over Enbarr below him, and he heard screams rising from far below. 

Heat burned in his chest and rose up through his throat. He opened his massive jaws and circled the palace. The girl had been down there, so he would obliterate it.

A ball of heat formed between his fangs and then shot down into the palace in a beam of fire that sent the rest of the structure crumbling into ashes. 

No, no, the girl was with him. The girl was inside of him.

There was only one cure to send her back to sleep. ( _IwasdreamingaboutawarIwasdreamingaboutayounggirl_ ). He had to get to it fast or she would become him, she would hurt him, she would destroy him. 

His wings beat against the air as he turned north. To Shambhala then. 

“Now this is absolutely ridiculous!” 

Her voice again. He had to ignore it. 

“Listen to me when I speak to you! Stop this nonsense at once!” 

His voice emerged as a wordless roar. 

“Fine, I suppose I must accept some responsibility for your current state,” the girl lamented ( _fellstarprotectorgoddessmother_ ). “But I believe I would have woken much sooner had you not been so twisted by fear. What has happened to you?” 

He sat by a table with his father. ( _LookslikeImgoingtohavetoleaveyounow )._ They were eating something simple, sitting quietly. Then the wall had fallen in. Hands had wrapped around his wrists. His father was on the ground, blood on the back of his head. And then he was gone. 

He was in the dark. But there was no knife to his throat and so he was calm. Empty. Like a part of him had always been empty. It was all just a dream. 

The needle stung a bit. His eyes hurt. But he was fine. When the needle had to penetrate into bone, the pain was worse. But he was fine. 

He wondered if his father was still alive.

The memory faded and he saw forests stretched below him.

The sky was dark around him, faintly grey in the east. Moonlight reflected on a thin ribbon of water that cut through the trees ( _ontheswiftriversdrift_ ). A few fading stars still shone in the sky, one larger and brighter and pale blue. 

And deep beneath the earth, thrumming with light and power to rival that distant star above, was the city. Shambhala. 

He summoned fire in his jaws again and let it rain down over the trees, crumbling rock and vaporizing every living thing in his path. He landed hard, tearing through the broken rumble with claws that could rip through bedrock, digging into the chasm he had opened until he found an entrance.

His teeth scraped against metal and he peeled it away easily, finding the burning painful heart of the world itself beneath. As he did, he heard screams, felt fire and sharp steel breaking against his scales.

As the ceiling fell in around them, he saw a seething clash of humans below. Mages who shrunk back at the open sky. A man and a girl with green hair staring up in wonder and recognition ( _childrenfamilyancientkinsmen_ ). The faces of a hundred enemies turned up towards him ( _comeradesfriendsstudents_ ). 

One of them, or perhaps all of them, were focused on him now. Perhaps he had been created to unite the world through hatred. A grim reversal of a god.

Let them try. He would kill them again and again and again. 

“Stop.” 

…

…

He was dreaming about the girl again. 

They faced each other in the dark temple. Snatches of music echoed through the stone hall, always just distant enough to remain unclear. The girl stood before the stone throne. He looked up at her. 

“The time has come for you and I to join as one,” the girl said, her large eyes solemn and unblinking. 

“Then I… will disappear,” he said. 

“Not at all. I wish I could have spent longer seeing this world through your eyes. I cannot say you were much fun as conversation, but I enjoyed chastising you,” the girl said, a bit of mischief in her smile. “Our souls must join as one, although I know you do not wish it. There is no need for words. I know your heart as though it were my own.” 

“Let me dream a while longer,” he whispered. 

“To dream or to wake will be your choice,” the girl said. He did not understand. The girl stepped down from the throne towards him. “You and I will join our souls and then that power will belong to you alone.” 

“This is the end?” he asked. She shook her head. 

“The beginning,” she assured him. 

She stretched out her hand. Hesitantly, he reached out. A perfect mirror. Where their fingers touched, soft golden light filled the room. 

…

...

He stood above the city, wings unfurled, roaring in pain as iron bit through the scales on his legs and arrows tore through his wings. Sharp darts of ice rained from the sky and dark energy ripped away at the armored plates of his belly. 

And suddenly it was all so clear. He was hurting them. He was frightening them. 

With a beat of his wings, he tried to flee backwards, but rocks slipped beneath his claws as the pit he had created fell in around him. 

“It’s weakening!” a voice called out in the distance. “Stand together!” 

He drew his wings around himself, huddling against the rock. Blood spilled down from his jaws and made his claws slide against the ground. Arrows cut thousands of holes through his wings and he felt a sharp point thrust deep into his ribs. 

The cry in his throat was a deep growl. Perhaps he ought to try again. Perhaps if he had flown away faster or if he had used his fire to clear an area… But it hurt. It hurt. 

“Don’t you touch him!” A man’s voice shouted, although to his ears it was a small sound. 

The bombardment relented. He sagged against the wall, limbs trembling as he tried to remain upright.

A man was standing in front of him, recklessly close, facing the other humans with his hands outstretched as if he meant to fight off the entire army.

His hair had grown long and his beard was a mess and even more scars had appeared on his face and arms. 

“That’s my kid,” the man said, his voice cracking. “No one is going to touch him.” 

“Step aside,” one of the others commanded. 

“Please, don’t do this, that creature is…” 

“For your own safety, captain, you must move-” 

“Byleth?” Jeralt’s face glanced up at him briefly as he took a few steps backwards away from the points of blades and arrows, his hands still raised. “I’m so sorry. I tried to find you for so long. I should have come sooner.” 

Byleth. Of course. How could he have forgotten?

He was Byleth. This was Jeralt. This was his father. 

The fractured thing in his chest broke. As it did, blinding light swelled around him. It hurt, but it hurt like a broken bone being set back into place. 

When he opened his eyes, Jeralt was looking down at him. The wings at his back were gone. He was small, fragile, only a man. Jeralt cradled his head like a child, brushing back his hair. Byleth felt something wet on his face. 

“To think that the first time I saw you cry… your tears would be for me,” Jeralt said, blinking rapidly as well. 

“Time to wake up,” Byleth replied, knowing the words were nonsense to his father. He used his last remaining strength to pull himself close to his father’s chest and curl his head into Jeralt’s shoulder. 

“I’ve got you, kid,” Jeralt murmured. “I’ve got you.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope you enjoyed this very experimental chapter and a bit of Sothis ex Machina. We are coming to the end of this wild journey and thanks so much for reading this massive crazy thing I wrote. The next chapter will be an epilogue/finale from the perspective of a character who has really just been a cameo before this point. 
> 
> Thank you for your comments. Comment again and you will receive three additional charges of Divine Pulse.


	24. The Mockingbird Sings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years later, the Savage Mockingbird takes a morning stroll.

_ Imperial Year 1190 _

_ Great Tree Moon _

Spring in Fódlan. No better time for an early morning walk. The Mockingbird whistled as he returned home, although his limbs were sore and his eyes were tired. The other little birds chirped along with him. 

The trees were blooming around the old ruin, showering the road through the Red Canyon with pink and white petals. No one else was out on the path so early. 

It was peaceful. Or as peaceful as life could ever be in his line of work. 

Up ahead, he saw a wooden stand by the side of the road. 

A painted sign showed simple images of fruit and honeycomb. Bees buzzed and alighted on a few baskets of apricots. 

Behind the stand, a man was dozing on a stool, his feet propped up on a bucket and his head leaning against a tree. His face was hidden by a book that was spread across his eyes to shield them from the light. 

As the Mockingbird approached, however, he sat up and rubbed at his face. Dark peacock green hair, unusually long. Striking blue eyes. 

“Fresh fruit and honey,” the man said as the Mockingbird paused in front of the stand. “Reasonably priced.” 

“Don’t they always say that?” the Mockingbird asked in reply, but still produced a few coins from his pocket. “I’ll take an apricot. And if you have honey, you wouldn’t happen to have mead?” 

“Isn’t it a bit early?” the man asked mildly, but still produced a bottle from his bag. 

“I work by night,” the Mockingbird shrugged. “I’d call this late.” 

The mead was good. Sweet, but still crisp, and flavored with clover and lavender. He drank a cup while resting his feet for a moment on a nearby stone wall. 

“Any news?” the fruit stand man asked after giving him a moment of silence. 

“News about what?” the Mockingbird said. 

“The world,” the man shrugged. “There aren’t many travelers that come through here and I've lived alone since my father passed this winter. Wherever you last came from.”

“Where I last came from...” the Mockingbird smiled thoughtfully. “Very cute. Subtly trying to get to know me, hm?” 

The man flushed a bit.    


“I only meant-” 

“I came from the Alliance,” the Mockingbird interrupted before the poor fellow could stammer himself into a corner. 

He really must not meet many people out here. 

“Got a few Almyran merchants I trade with out there. It’s made my life quite a bit easier to have them in Fódlan so peacefully. Smart idea from that new Almyran king to offer aid in rebuilding after the war. He and I go way back, actually, not to brag. I’ve heard his queen, Ingrid, was instrumental in the rebuilding as well. Apparently the king finds her strict sense of honor useful in dealing with skeptics. Don’t mention it, but I’m extremely jealous. She caught herself a real prize.” 

“So the Alliance is recovering well, then?” the man asked. The Mockingbird laughed. 

“You must be quite isolated, friend. The Alliance is thriving. Once the people of Fódlan realized that the outside world could help them, they threw open their doors. I just came from the Goneril Artisan Academy, which has been training Almyrans and locals alike. Lady Hilda produces some fine work, and the former Duke Aegir, well, he produces some... work. But he’s improving.” 

“And what about the Agarthans, the ones who surrendered?” the man questioned him. Odd, to press for such specific news. 

“The Lady of House Ordelia oversees the sentencing and rehabilitation of those who participated in unethical experimentation,” the Mockingbird explained. “She’s an odd little thing. Goes around with an enormous body guard, but everyone is far more afraid of her. Apparently she used to have some terrible illness that nearly killed her during the war. People always ask her how she recovered, but all she ever says publicly is that plenty of sleep was the key.” 

“That’s good,” the man said, a strangely relieved smile crossing his face. “So they are safe.” 

“Safe is relative,” the Mockingbird said and then held his cup out to be refilled. “There are still criminals about, you know. Plenty of chaos what with the plagues and the battles and all. Best be careful. But… anything too serious will bring the Blade Breakers down on you.” 

“The Blade Breakers?” The man’s hand shook slightly and mead spilled over the Mockingbird’s fingers. He took care to visibly lick away the liquid. 

“A pair of mercenaries. Both women. Both terrifying. Hard drinkers, too, but I can appreciate an unconventional life,” the Mockingbird nodded. 

“I like the sound of them,” the man agreed. “You haven’t heard anything from the Kingdom recently, have you?” 

“The Kingdom? The Kingdom’s my home, of course I know the Kingdom,” the Mockingbird snorted. “I went a few months ago to visit an old friend who has gotten into a bit of a sticky situation.” 

“What was the situation?” 

“She accidentally married Duke Fraldarius."

"Excuse me?" 

"I was a little concerned since he’s always off galavanting around and advising the king, and she prefers to stay at home, but she keeps that territory run like a well-tuned instrument. Apparently she gets the occasional advice from the former Duke, despite him supposed to be working on reforming the Church, but if we can learn to ignore our fathers, we can all stand to ignore our father-in-laws.” 

The fruit stand man smiled at that and leaned back against the tree. He really was quite a looker, although it was clear he hadn’t bothered to cut his hair in several months. 

“Any other old friends in the Kingdom?” he said curiously. “You seem to know it well.” 

“Well, I can’t call her an old friend exactly, but my favorite diva of the Mittelfrank Opera recently opened an orphanage in Gautier Territory. She married the local lord, lucky bastard, and now they’re raising a few dozen kids whose parents died in the war,” the Mockingbird recalled. “Imagine getting your lullabies sung by Dorothea Gautier. I’m tempted to pose as an orphan waif myself.” 

“There are many orphans then?” the man asked, seeming slightly deflated with the question. 

“War always leaves orphans. Honestly though? The Kingdom was a mess before the war. The nobility was corrupt, the land was poor, there was constant trouble with Sreng and Duscur.” The Mockingbird sighed.

“But it’s getting better. Slowly and painfully, but it’s better. The people call their new leader the King of Mercy. The nobles call him the Mad King, but that was mostly because he took their lands and wealth as reparations. Funny how taking people’s money gets him called merciful while they call me 'disgraceful' just because I haven’t rebuilt an independently governed Duscur. And I hear Queen Marianne is expected to bear an heir by the end of the month. Some people, eh? Fortune just smiles on them.” 

“So that is what has become of the Kingdom,” the man mused. “Or is that everything?”

“Everything I can think of,” the Mockingbird said. He set down his cup and bit into the apricot. “Oh, well, if you ever go yourself, there’s a phenomenal seafood restaurant in the capital. Husband and wife run it together, best food of your life although much of it is clearly experimental. And the world’s most terrifying regular eats there every night, staring at both chefs like he’s worried they’ll vanish.”

“I’ll have to try it,” the man said. “Although I don’t travel much. What about news from the Empire?”

The Mockingbird set the apricot down at that. 

He had been enjoying the conversation, but this was too unusual to be ignored. 

“I think you mean the Adrestian Republic, my friend,” he said, “there hasn’t been an Empire for five years.”

“Oh,” the man said with faint surprise, as though he did not entirely understand why such little awareness of the world might be startling. “Then how is the Republic?” 

“Chaotic. Difficult. Like all new things, prone to failure. But it endures,” the Mockingbird said. “Annette von Bergliez is holding another constitutional convention to make revisions this year. Caspar has finished his term as Consul and apparently he claims there’s too much shouting in politics and his wife runs far more efficient meetings.”

“So they are struggling?” 

“Aren’t we all?” the Mockingbird laughed. “Seriously, though, one piece of good news. Manuela Casagranda apparently survived the war and she’s staging a revival in a new opera,  _ The Flame Emperor _ . She’s a little old for the role, but apparently even von Vestra, the Republic’s founder, and his partner came to see it. Manuela claims he wept with joy at her performance, which is… theoretically possible.” 

“An opera,” the man said thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen one.” 

“Friend,” the Mockingbird said, “you really ought to travel more. There’s an entire world out there to see. It’s not all perfect, but it is incredible. You could even leave Fódlan entirely if you’d like. Honestly, you'd probably prefer it. Fewer plagues and cults and active volcanoes. The Princess of Brigid welcomes travelers, I hear. If her Prince Consort’s paintings are anything to be believed, the island is gorgeous. And the princess... even more gorgeous.”

“I prefer a quiet life,” the man said, picking the book back up. “But I thank you for the news. Take another apricot, if you’d like, for your trouble.” 

The Mockingbird squinted at the back of the book. 

“Is that a  _ Lord Dunvallo Chronicle _ ? No, you’ve picked up  _ The Romance of the World’s Salvation _ ,” the Mockingbird whistled. “Heavy stuff. Is it really unfinished? I heard the author died in the war, but even so, it is a masterpiece.” 

“I haven’t reached the end yet,” the man said defensively. 

The Mockingbird crossed his arms and looked down at the man behind the fruit stand, now attempting to hide himself behind his book again. 

“You should come back with me.” 

The fruit stand man’s head whipped up so fast that his long blue-green hair flipped out of his eyes for a moment. Adorable. 

“What?”

“You should come back with me. At least as far as the next village. Come on. Why spend your life out in the middle of nowhere selling fruit to one traveler every three weeks?” the Mockingbird cajoled him. “You must have something else you can do.” 

“I was… I used to be a mercenary,” the man answered uncertainly. 

“Great, so you can swing a sword,” the Mockingbird clapped his hands with delight. “Lots of villages would pay good money to have you around. And you look like, no offense, you could stand to do with having a few more people around.” 

“I would rather not,” the man said, his discomfort obvious as he tugged at a strand of long hair. “I’m trying to be forgotten.” 

A fascinating answer. 

A truly fascinating answer. 

“Ah, I think I understand,” the Mockingbird nodded. “You need a place away from the rest of the world. A place to protect you. A place for people who have seen some trouble. A place to... lie low?” 

The man did not react although the Mockingbird cackled at his own joke. 

“I just so happen to know a place for people like you. The world still needs a few sanctuaries for the things it would rather bury,” the Mockingbird said. “Have you ever heard of a place called Abyss?” 

“I’m sorry, but I have not,” the man replied. “My father raised me away from most of the world.” 

“It shows, friend, it shows,” the Mockingbird said. “But if you’re tired of fighting and need some easy work, I might have something for you.” 

“What could you need an ignorant farmer to do for you?” the man asked, but there was a shy smile on his lips. 

The Mockingbird stretched out his hand. 

“Those who cannot do, right? They teach.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks. Did you enjoy the wrap-up? 
> 
> Thanks for coming on this journey with me. All commenters will be named the new Archbishop of the United Kingdom of Fódlan.


End file.
